


Chipped Blocks

by oyhumbug



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Action, Angst, Drama, F/M, Family, Flash Fic, Future Fic, Humor, Romance, alternative history, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because we love someone, that does not meant we understand them, and blood does not always make a family. It's only when Oliver and Felicity start to blend their lives together that things for them and their children start to make sense and work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm trying things a little different with this story. Although I have a general sense of where I want this fic to end up, I have nothing planned or outlined. I'm letting the chips fall where they may along with the prompts. This is SO not my normal process, so it very well could be a disaster. Together, we'll just have to see what happens. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #29: Up Close and Personal**

**Chapter One**

Like a book you never wanted to end, the school day drew to a close, and the bell rang. Was it just Felicity, or did time seem to go by faster with every 'x' to the calendar?  
  
“Frack.”  
  
To a smattering of chuckles, she moved out from around her podium, realizing – too late – that she might have offered that exclamation up to the classroom a little louder than intended. However, if that was the worst thing she said to her students, then it had been a good day. Really, it was amazing that, fifteen years going strong, she still had a job, considering the things that came out of her mouth. Apparently, either her students didn't take her serious enough to actually listen to her, or she was deemed amusing enough to be spared their wicked vindictive streaks. Because, though Felicity enjoyed her job and still managed to teach high school without hating all teenagers, she was all too aware of their flaws. After all, it wasn't too long along that she had been one herself, and, even if she forgot her own less than sterling behavior (not that Donna Smoak would _ever_ allow that to happen), then Mia would remind her.   
  
Shaking away her thoughts, Felicity refocused upon the fact that her students were hastily packing up and leaving for the day, and she still needed to reiterate their assignment. “Don't forget that your final project proposals are due tomorrow. With parent-teacher night rapidly approaching, we need to get moving on this assignment. And try to make them spectacular, because they'll go a long way towards impressing your Luddite guardians and proving to them that I am the cat's pajamas of technology teachers.” It wouldn't hurt her side business either as a software developer, considering the fact that nearly all of her students were the heir or heiress to some amazing family business. Felicity made a lot of connections (and business deals) because of parent-teacher night. “Even if you don't care about impressing the 'rents, impress me, because I'll be getting all up in their grills, and, trust me, my flattery will get you everywhere.”  
  
“Nobody says that anymore, Ms. S.,” a student called out with a roll of his eyes.   
  
“I know that.” And she did. Totally. Didn't they realize that she was just mocking the older generations with them, making it retro-funny? Eh. Whatever.   
  
Yet the teasing continued. “Just what exactly does up in their grills mean, Ms. S.,” another student asked her.   
  
While Felicity was pretty sure that they understood her point, that her references weren't _that_ old – oh, god, were they; was she turning into her mother?, she answered the question anyway just to be on the safe side. Plus, that was one of her rules as a teacher: no inquiry was too great, or too small, or too embarrassing for her to answer. “Um... personal?”  
  
“Oh, so you mean _intimate_?”  
  
“Well, sure, I guess.” And then she realized what the little shits were implying, and she glared at her students, shooting them with the least impressed look she could manage. “No! No, that's not what I meant, and you know it.” Some were still lingering, laughing. Oh, the idyll rich whose Porsches and Jeeves-es waited indefinitely for their pampered behinds. “Now, leave. Skedaddle. Get out of my hair.”  
  
“That you dye,” an oh-so-helpful brat of a natural blonde cheerleader offered up in response.  
  
Seriously? Why did Felicity put herself through this? Why?  
  
“Out,” she yelled. And, yep, that was her loud voice. “Out, you hooligans, one and all.”  
  
By the time the last millionaire degenerate skipped out of her classroom in their designer dress shoes, Felicity realized that she had defensively crossed her arms over her chest. Letting them fall to her sides, she blew out a deep breath – her cheeks puffing out accordingly – and rolled back her shoulders, her neck cracking in the process. The sad thing was that, despite the mostly good natured harassment she suffered at her students' hands, she'd still rather be there than at home... which made her a great teacher (if she did say so herself) but an awful mother.  
  
“Ms. Smoak?”  
  
Whirling around on her panda flats – hey, at least Starling Prep had a kickass janitorial staff, so the tiled floors were always spotless and tired, old, scuffed panda flats spin-able, Felicity came face to face with the reason why she was a teacher: that brilliant student who you just... connect with, who you know will change your life just as much as you'll hopefully change theirs for the better. Though he had initially startled her, Felicity's jumpiness was immediately forgotten, and the corners of her pink painted mouth lifted into a warm, genuine, bright smile. “Connor. What are you still doing here? Did you fall asleep and miss me scaring away all your classmates?”  
  
“You know I'd never sleep during your class, Ms. Smoak. It's the only one I like here.”  
  
Yeah. She did know that, but she had been hoping that maybe Connor was adjusting better to Starling Prep, that he was starting to fit in, that things for the seventeen year old were beginning to improve. Apparently, not. Although Connor was new to the private school – having just started his junior year in the isolated world that was an elite, prep academy, he had been quickly accepted by his peers. It wasn't a question of not belonging in Connor's case as it sometimes was for scholarship students. No, Connor wasn't there as a charity case – the unfortunate outlook of many of Starling Prep's more privileged in regards to their less wealthy peers. He was just new to the city itself, and he made it very clear that he was not in Starling by choice.  
  
“While I appreciate the love – platonically speaking, of course, I wish you'd spread it around a little more.” Adding a warning to her next statement, Felicity prefaced, “I'm not trying to tell you how to feel, and I'm not good with heights, so this is not me standing on my soapbox, but your apathy towards... well, everything and everyone besides computers and the lady who gives you access to them is only hurting you, Connor. Nobody else here cares, to be frank. Right or wrong, that's how this place, how life, works.” When he didn't respond yet didn't make up some excuse to run away, Felicity decided to push him a little further by asking, “what do your parents think of your little rebellion?”  
  
“My mom's the reason I'm here. She said it's because she wants me to have every opportunity in the world, but really I know she shipped me off because she was sick and tired of dealing with a teenage son on her own. As for Oliver....” Well, that was interesting – Connor referring to his father by his first name – and illuminating. “He's oblivious. Apparently, when he was my age, he was getting arrested and getting suspended, so, as long as I don't pee on a cop car or show up to class wasted so many times that I get expelled, I'm golden. Besides,” Connor added bitterly. And that's what let Felicity know that, despite his blasé attitude, her favorite student (And, yeah, teachers weren't supposed to have favorite students, but they all totally did.) really did care. He cared a lot, actually. “Oliver's too busy to notice anyone else's life but his own. He never wanted to be a father, and now he's stuck with me until I graduate.”  
  
“He's there now, Connor. That has to count for something.” Because sometimes dad's weren't there... even when they could be.   
  
If ever a parent-teacher night was needed! Felicity made it her practice not to involve herself in her students' personal lives. (Oh, who was she kidding? She was totally a meddler.) While she was a horrible mother, she gave great advice to parents... or so she believed. (Fifteen years and counting, and she'd had very few complaints so far. And, wow, that sounded kind of sexual, but, well, if only.) Apparently, that old saying was true: those who can't do, teach... except, she could totally do computers – not literally... like sexually, obviously – so, maybe not.  
  
And, yeah, she was spending _way_ too much time with hormonal teenagers. Why hadn't someone warned her that they were contagious?  
  
Anyway, where were they...?  
  
“ … why the school doesn't have a technology club?”  
  
Flats or not, Felicity had been standing in her shoes on her feet all day. With her dogs barking, she moved to sit down behind her desk before answering Connor's query, indicating for him to take a seat as well. The teen did as suggested, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and onto the floor first before sliding into the nearest desk. “I've tried in the past, but there was never any real interest. A few people would show up thinking that we'd just play Dungeons and Dragons for a few hours together, and, while I was okay with that – I mean, Dungeons and Dragons really isn't my thing personally, but to each their own, right?, they'd quickly get bored with my snack choices and go back to playing at home where their butlers and maids were handy for munchy runs.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Smiling at Connor's disappointment, at his interest, and at seeing her window of opportunity when it presented itself, Felicity suggested, “but that doesn't mean that we can't meet after school and geek out. While the board wouldn't officially approve a club of one with me as your advisor, technically, I do have office hours every night. We could... do things together. Tech things,” she rushed to add. Because, while, objectively speaking, Connor was a cute kid, he was a kid. And she was a grown-ass woman who did not possess even a teeny-tiny cougar streak. (No, Donna Smoak had that corner covered in their family.) If anything, a part of Felicity would have wanted to set Connor up with her own kid, but she liked Connor too much to saddle him with Mia. While she loved her daughter unconditionally, Felicity was not blind to her faults. Of which there were many – too many for even a smart, attractive, compassionate boy like Connor Hawke to wrangle. “I'm not just a real-life Mavis Beacon; I freelance. At one point in my life, my plans did not included teaching pimply faced teenagers how to create spreadsheets, you know. No offense. So, if you're really interested in computers and technology, I could show you a few things. Legal things! All things legal! We will not hack! Hacking is whack.”  
  
Chuckling, Connor stood up. “No, _you're_ whack, Ms. Smoak.” As he wrapped his messenger bag back around his tall, lanky form once again, Felicity realized that he was her only student who actually called her by her name. She wasn't sure where the Ms. S. thing started from. While teenagers might be lazy, Smoak was not a difficult (or time consuming) name to pronounce. “But I'm in... if you're sure it won't be an imposition.”  
  
“Nah. No imposition. I'm totally downsies.”  
  
As he disappeared through the doorway, Connor said, “and... yeah, maybe we'll work on your street cred, too, Ms. Smoak.”  
  
Five minutes later, when Felicity pushed aside the papers she was supposed to be grading in favor of that line of code that had been giving her fits, she realized she was still pouting.   
  
She didn't know what Connor was talking about; she was wicked pissah at slang. 


	2. FF#30: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Two

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #30: You have the right to remain silent.**

**Chapter Two**

He was running late – not that such a complication was a rarity in Oliver Queen's life, but this just felt worse, because of what he was running late to.  
  
Parent-Teacher Night.  
  
Three months ago, it wouldn't have just been a laughable idea – that he would be expected to attend a series of meetings with his kid's educators; it would have been impossible. Because three months ago, Oliver Queen didn't even know that he had a kid. A son. A _teenage_ son at that – one who resented him and the fact that they were suddenly forced upon each other all because a woman Oliver couldn't remember having sex with eighteen years prior decided that it was what was best. For the child they shared.  
  
Even now, even with Connor living with him, even with Connor's birth certificate amended so that Oliver's name was listed responsibly as his father, even with the knowledge that his mother had paid Sandra Hawke off with two million dollars because she didn't believe Oliver ready for parenthood, that – that he shared a child with someone – was a sobering and terrifying thought. And not just as Oliver Queen but as... well, the other, not-so-public part of himself, too. Neither role he filled was cut out to be a parent, but a parent he was nonetheless.   
  
Or, at least, Oliver was trying to be a parent. Which was why he had his assistant put Connor's parent-teacher night into his calendar even though his kid never said a word about the evening. Maybe it wasn't quite the father-son bonding experience that they needed. Hell, forget bonding. He and Connor just needed to figure out a way to get to know each other. But it was something. It was a start. And, looking back at his own childhood, Oliver knew it was important, because it was something his own parents never attended. While he loved his parents, and he could now remember them with only fondness rather than the bitter animosity that had tinged his grief after their initial deaths, he also recognized their faults. In fact, those faults were the driving force in how he was attempting to figure out this whole dad thing.  
  
Seemingly pushing open his car door, opening his umbrella, and standing up all in one motion, Oliver quickly made his way towards the looming, gothic structure that was Starling Prep – the school Connor now attended and Oliver's own alma mater. Despite the unrelenting assault of rain pelting down upon him, he couldn't help but notice how desolate the parking lot looked. While a few stray cars remained, he'd be lucky if the doors were still unlocked. Despite his best intentions, the day – and then the early evening – had gotten away from him. It was an excuse Teenager Ollie had been quite familiar with, having heard it fall from his own father's lips more times than he could possibly recall. Now CEO of their family company himself... just as his father before him, Oliver had never wanted to use the same justifications to explain his failures. Yet, here he was. Though he knew that Robert had often lied about his work responsibilities and while, even when they were true, had been motivated by greed rather than a genuine concern for his employees, it was cold comfort for Oliver as he finally stepped inside of the dark foyer of his newfound son's prep school.  
  
He could have just left. He probably should have. As Oliver shook out his umbrella and closed it, he questioned why he was still there. Wouldn't it be better to, instead of continuing with this fruitless endeavor, just go home and actually spend time with the kid he was trying to be there for by attending parent-teacher night? Instead of talking to Connor's teachers, he could talk to his son – something that sounded so simple in thought but was rather unachievable in practice. Connor wanted nothing to do with him. He was only in Starling because he was a minor, and it had been made clear to him that he had no other choice. He resented Oliver for not knowing about him for the first seventeen years of his life, and he resented Oliver for now being there. Well, as much as occasionally seeing each other in the kitchen could be considered being there. So, it wouldn't matter to Connor if Oliver actually managed to track down a real life person to confirm that he at least attempted to make it to parent-teacher night.  
  
But it mattered to Oliver.  
  
With shoes that squeaked on the impeccably polished and waxed marble floors and clothes that, despite his umbrella and hasty sprint from car to entrance, dripped a trail behind him, Oliver made a beeline towards a beacon of light that could be seen from the multi-storied, grand foyer. It was coming from a side hallway, and, no matter how much Oliver tried to wrack his brain for memories of that particular passage, he had no idea what was located down that particular wing. Perhaps that had something to do with the more than twenty years that had passed since his own attendance at Starling Prep, but it was more likely that his faulty memory sprang from his own less than impressive attendance record. His luck? It'd just be some hard-working janitor who had to pull overtime because of the mess such open house nights created, or it would be some display of achievement the school was pompously highlighting with a ridiculously overbearing and too bright spotlight. Either way, Oliver had zero to no hope that his efforts would actually yield a teacher to talk to....  
  
… until a teacher was standing right there.  
  
And she was threatening him.  
  
“Come one step closer, and I'll... well, I'll probably just injure myself. But know that I will go down swinging, and there is an of-chance that I will hurt you in the process. So, yeah. You've been warned.  
  
The slip of a woman was holding up a small, portable heater, the cord dangling down towards her own feet posing more of a threat than the chosen weapon itself presented. While Oliver smirked, he heeded her warning and stopped, not wanting her to trip. Between the floors that were no doubt slippery because of the monsoon outside and the gallons of water everyone would have brought in that evening and his lack of faith in her fighting abilities, that seemed like a real risk. To further pacify her, he held his hands up in surrender, waiting for whatever came next from the petite educator.  
  
And a teacher he had doubt she was.  
  
That was not meant to be a slight either. The woman was attractive – not schoolmarmish in _any_ stretch of the imagination. Yes, she wore glasses, and, yes, her hair was pulled up, but the sass she had displayed in threatening him belied her reserved attire, and her prim appearance could do nothing to disguise her beauty, because she was stunning – all blonde hair, and big blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Even with the distance between them, Oliver could see that she just... shined. The woman looked nothing like any teacher he had ever had in school – maybe if he had, he would have left with a much higher GPA, but she was a teacher nonetheless, checking off so many boxes from his hot for teacher....  
  
Her voice snapped him out of his inappropriate thoughts. “I'm, um... can I help you?” Heater still held poised to be thrown at his head, she was nevertheless polite... almost like she couldn't help herself. And that just made Oliver feel worse about objectifying her. This wasn't who he was anymore; he didn't judge women by their looks, and he wasn't at his son's school to pick up chicks. Hell, he didn't even use the word 'chicks' anymore, yet there was something about this woman that had captured his attention from the moment he first spotted her. For a man who lived such a private, isolated life, that was... startling.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he immediately apologized. That seemed to be Oliver's go to move these days. He was constantly apologizing – to Connor, to Sandra, to Thea, to the people at work. Even when he didn't understand what he had done wrong, Oliver just apologized. Even when he was just trying to do the right thing but screwed up somehow anyway, Oliver apologized. Even when he didn't do anything wrong, he apologized preemptively, because, with his recent track record, it was only a matter of time. “I didn't mean to startle you. I'm running a little late.” In pausing to gather his thoughts, Oliver realized how dark the school was, how quiet. “Really late. I'm just.... I had an emergency meeting that then ran over, but my kid, my son, goes here, and I....”  
  
“Oh,” the woman interrupted him. She smiled. And then she casually put the heater down by her feet before nervously twisting her hands together. In turn, Oliver realized that he himself was running his thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together in agitation and forced himself to stop. “You're here for parent-teacher night.” And then the educator frowned, and, for a moment, Oliver actually found himself regretting that there was something he did that made her disappointed. She had a face meant for smiling. Nothing should ever dim that. “But there are no teachers here now. Well, I mean, I'm a teacher, but what are the chances that your son is actually one my students? And, besides, I just teach technology. While I tell the kids how important it is – and it is, don't get me wrong, especially in today's marketplace, most parents don't see it that way. They see technology as an elective, and they dismiss it, and they dismiss me... which I have now done to myself, albeit unintentionally, by not allowing you even a chance to speak with me about the son I probably don't have in my class without first marginalizing my subject area for you.”  
  
He frankly had no idea how to respond to that. So, instead, Oliver just stumbled through an introduction. “Um, my son's name is, uh, Connor. Connor Hawke.”  
  
Making the moment even more surreal, the teacher moaned dramatically, her head falling back in what Oliver assumed was frustration. “Of course it is!”  
  
“I'm sorry.” Again with the compulsive apologizing. “Has Connor... done something wrong?”  
  
“No, no, of course not,” she reassured him, taking a step forward and stubbing her toe upon the portable heater. Softly, he heard her curse, “stupid Hephaestus!,” before glaring at the now offending pseudo-weapon and making a point to step wide around it. Once more addressing Oliver, she explained, “he's only, like, the most talented and intelligent student I've ever had. And I really wanted to talk to you tonight.” In his interest, Oliver started walking towards her, but then he watched as she seemed to clam-up, her lips pressing tightly together as she actively avoided his gaze. “For reasons,” was squeaked out, before the once bubbly, once brilliant, once babbling educator refused to speak another word.  
  
But Oliver wasn't deterred – confused but not deterred. “Felicity Smoak?,” he addressed her. At the surprised 'eep' she emitted upon realizing that he now knew exactly who she was, Oliver explained, “I looked up the names of Connor's teachers today during my lunch hour. Unfortunately, the school's website doesn't include pictures for all of its faculty members, but I wanted to at least memorize which classrooms I needed to visit... you know, if I actually had succeeded in making it here on time.” Her startled expression morphed into confusion... which still didn't make any sense. But Oliver continued, apprehensive but no less determined. “So, Felicity.” He should have called her Ms. Smoak. Or Mrs. Smoak, though the lack of ring on a very important finger made him hope it wasn't the second option... not that he had any business either noticing or caring about such a potential revelation. But Oliver just... didn't want to call her by her last name; he didn't want to be that formal – not with her. So, he didn't; he wasn't. “Would you like to have a late dinner with me?”


	3. FF#31: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Three

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story  
  
**

**Flash Fic Prompt #31: Nowhere to Hide**

**Chapter Three**

“I have a daughter!” Shaking her head... like she had water in her ears, and that was the only reason why, to his invitation to have dinner, Felicity had responded with such a forceful announcement of her mommy status... not that Mia had called her mommy, well, ever. Not the point. The point was that... oh, god, Felicity wasn't sure she had a point. “I just... that didn't sound like a purely professional dinner, and I'm not just this carefree, go-lucky, single woman that you can act out your suppressed authority fantasies with. I have a child. A daughter. A teenage daughter. Who is.... Well, she's awful. I love her, she's mine, and I wouldn't trade her for anyone else in the world, but Mia is a hellion. Plus, you're Connor's dad. You're Mr. Hawke. And, after everything Connor has told me about you, I was prepared to hate you. But then you walk in here. And your white button up is wet, and it's sticking to your _insanely_ muscular chest. And you're not wearing a jacket. Or a tie. Why aren't you wearing a jacket? Or a tie?”   
  
Without waiting for him to respond, Felicity took a deep breath and plunged on. She really wished she could relocate her silent schtick from a few moments before. Yeah. She really missed that. “And you're late. You're so unbelievably late. And you startled me into threatening to beat you with a heater. But you're here. You're here, and you cared enough to look up your son's teachers, and nothing about any of this – well, maybe the late part, and definitely the attractive part, because, objectively speaking, Connor is a good looking kid – is jiving with the image I had of you inside of my mind.”   
  
Worst. Ramble. Ever.   
  
Curling her blunt nails into the fleshy part of her palms, Felicity centered herself. “So, no, Mr. Hawke,” she _finally_ found her way around to her point. “I shouldn't have dinner with you.”  
  
Wait. What? She wasn't supposed to say _shouldn't_... which invited persuasion; she was supposed to emphatically turn him down. Say that she couldn't, that she wouldn't, go out to a late dinner with him. Huffing at herself in frustration, Felicity crossed her arms over her chest petulantly and frowned.   
  
Crap on a shingle.  
  
A bark of laughter emanating from Mr. Hawke alerted Felicity to the fact that her curse wasn't just internal, but it was too late to be embarrassed about her slip, because she was already mortified by her lack of filter... if that was even the right explanation at this point. A lack of filter seemed too mild of a way to describe her faux pas that evening.  
  
So many faux pas.  
  
“First, my name isn't Mr. Hawke.”  
  
While Felicity would like to say that it was the obviously complicated family dynamics which had her befuddled, the truth of the matter was that, while she was chastising herself, Connor's father had closed the distance between them, and he was standing far too close for his own well-being. And her peace of mind. He had popped her bubble, and she totally wasn't hating his nearness.  
  
And that sounded super dirty.  
  
Stupid contagious teenagers.  
  
“But you said that you were Connor's dad – Connor Hawke's....”  
  
“Connor has his mother's last name,” he clarified, graciously interrupting her before she could put _all_ the feet in the world into her mouth. It was big enough. They'd surely fit. “Seeing as how my son has apparently confided in you, I'm sure you already know that he just recently became a part of my life.” A bitter, self-loathing smirk twisted his features as he admitted, “he doesn't want to change his name.”  
  
While it wasn't said, Felicity could read between the lines. Connor proclaimed that his father didn't want anything to do with him – yet, here his father was nonetheless, but that disinterest was actually the other way around. It wasn't so much that Connor didn't want to change his name; he didn't want to take his father's.   
  
“So, you're Oliver... Connor calls you by your first name, so I'm not a creepy stalker...,” she prompted him to fill in the missing moniker.  
  
“Queen.” And Felicity could feel her eyes go comically, horrifically wide despite her best attempt to maintain a neutral expression. “I'm Oliver Queen.”   
  
To further flummox her, he held a hand out in invitation for her to shake. Felicity slipped her hand into his, surprised by how... not smooth his grip was. He had callouses – ones not born from clutching his fancy-pants CEO pens like a caveman – and a strength that was deliciously attractive.  
  
No, not delicious. She was just hungry, and he had mentioned food. And not attractive, because, well... no, that one was a lost cause, because she had already admitted – to the both of them – that he was sex on a stick... maybe not in so many words but close enough.   
  
“Right, Mr. Queen,” she rushed to fill the silence while _still_ shaking his hand. It was awkward, and inappropriate, but she just didn't want to let go. “Of course.” Because duh. She should have known. While Connor would have been respected as the new rich kid, it took something special to impress the millionaire brats that were his peers into practically showing him deference. Which they did. It took _billions_ and being related to the most infamous family in Starling City. Only the Queens fit that bill.   
  
“Please, it's Oliver.” Stunning Felicity back into a quiet she could admit was unfamiliar but certainly welcome, he then smiled at her – this big, blinding, bulldozing smile. “If we're going to have dinner together, then we should at least be on a first name basis, don't you think?” She couldn't respond. She couldn't answer him. Felicity wasn't even sure if she was capable of breathing in that moment. And then Oliver's confidence was replaced with a vulnerability which was unjustly even more irresistible. Damn him. “You are hungry, right? You haven't already had dinner, have you? I just assumed, because it would have been such a busy night for you, that you wouldn't have had time to eat, but perhaps I was....”  
  
“Ugh, I'm starving,” Felicity moaned. She hadn't intended to admit that, but the words had just slipped out... probably because she was so hungry that her mouth had involuntarily started salivating at the first hint of food. And then because _they had served her so well before – NOT!_ , even more words started pouring forth. “I haven't eaten since lunch. Well, I mean, I popped a few tastes of the rainbow between parents earlier, but that doesn't even count as a pick me up unless a cup of coffee was involved. Which it wasn't. Because it's not like the school _ever_ schedules in bathroom breaks for the teachers, and it doesn't matter how long you sit there without a parent to talk to; as soon as you leave the room, someone shows up, and then you look like the flighty, blonde technology teacher that's as an elective of a meeting as her class. And, yeah, apparently, I'm not ready to let that go yet. So, right.” And then she nodded once in emphasis, because, well, why not? It helped punctuate that she was done talking. For now. And she really was a stickler for proper punctuation.   
  
Of all the things she said, Oliver elected to question, “tastes of the rainbow?”  
  
“Skittles.” He tilted his head to the side in obvious ignorance. Rich people were so weird. “The candy.” His eyes narrowed in focus but not comprehension. “Little, round bursts of chemicalized – I'm not sure that's a real word, but go with me here – fruit flavor.” He grinned, but it wasn't one of shared interest in her choice of snack food, though he certainly still looked interested in her. Felicity shook her head. She meant _in what she was saying_. “I happened to have popped some green – lime – ones earlier, because they're my favorite. Well, I like them all. In fact, I like all colors. Red, purple, yellow, orange. They're staples in my wardrobe. But I don't wear a lot of green. Instead, I like to put green things in my mouth. Pickles. Mint Chip Ice Cream. Green Skittles.” Her list only trailed off when she noticed that Connor's dad was practically choking.  
  
Running back over the things she had said, Felicity was at a loss as to what had set him off. Sure, it wasn't very professional – or even very refined – to talk about _putting things in one's mouth_ , but because she had only been talking about green things... and neither the Grinch nor the Hulk were real, it wasn't _that bad_. _That_ inappropriate. Besides, she had said far more leading things already towards Oliver, and he hadn't reacted at all. So, why now, why this babble, Felicity had no idea.  
  
Deciding that she didn't want to know and giving them both an out, she redirected their conversation back to the topic at hand. “So, dinner? Against my better judgment... and perhaps even a clause in my contract – I should probably look into that later.... Anyway, yes. We should do that.” At least if she was eating, she'd be less likely to make a fool of herself. Probably. “You name the place. And I'll meet you there. Because this isn't a date. You're just a parent, and I'm your child's teacher. And it's parent-teacher night, but it's late, and we're both hungry, so we'll talk about parenting, and teaching, and children while we satiate our needs.” Oh, dear lord. Cringing in mortification, Felicity corrected... or, at least, she attempted to correct. “Our purely biological needs.” And then she closed her eyes so she couldn't _see_ his sympathetic mortification on her behalf. “I meant our basic needs for survival, but I'm sure you figured this out by now. And just know that, if I don't show up at the restaurant, it's not because I don't care – about your son. As his teacher. In a completely appropriate and professional manner. It's because I found an unlocked garage, pulled my car inside, and left it running. It's not you; it's me.”  
  
“How does Big Belly Burger sound?”  
  
And then to her ever-loving shame, Felicity groaned for the second time that night in front of Oliver Frickin' Queen. “I _love_ Three-B's.”  
  
Without commenting, Oliver picked up her portable heater... which she had threatened him with earlier. She watched as he put it back in her classroom, grabbed her things – her purse, and bag, and coat, and umbrella, turned out the light, and then shut the door behind him. It wasn't until he was beside her once more in the dark, empty, still hallway that he finally offered a response. She jumped when she realized his mouth was close to her ear, and he whispered, “I do, too, Felicity.”  
  
She was in _so much_ trouble.


	4. FF#32: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I know that it has been more than a month since I've posted anything. Sorry. (So not sorry!) The X-Files happened - all nine season and two movies of them, and it was fan-freaking-tastic. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm back. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

**Flash Fic Prompt #32: Rules of Engagement**

**Chapter Four**

Oliver was lonely.  
  
If someone would have told his twenty-one year old self that, eighteen years later, he'd be sitting inside of a fast food joint, speeding towards forty, and essentially waiting to meet someone who didn't even qualify as a blind date, he would have found that more improbable than getting shipwrecked on an island for five years. What's more, that he'd be parent-less before middle age; that he'd never marry (let alone get divorced a few times over); that his life would revolve around running the family company he had never had any interest in and trying to selflessly, anonymously protect and serve, save, his city; that Tommy, and Laurel, and Sara would all be dead? No, this was certainly not where pre-Island Ollie had seen his life going.  
  
Up until a few months ago – up until Oliver had found out that he was a father to a seventeen year old son, he had never noticed how quiet, how boring his existence was. He worked with and employed thousands of people, and his sister ran and operated a nightclub, so his day to day life was filled with noise. At night, he went out in a mask and hood and shot arrows into pimps and drug dealers, into profiteers and rapists, so his life was anything but staid.   
  
But his employees didn't know him. Hell, Oliver didn't know them. Sure, he cared about their wellbeing, and a part of why he was actually putting on a suit and going into an office every day was to make sure that those faceless, nameless people had jobs to support themselves and their families, but Oliver could walk by his accountants and his sales managers on the street and not recognize them. He hated dancing, he rarely drank, and the pointless revelry that Verdant thrived off of did nothing but remind Oliver of loved ones lost and the son who wanted nothing to do with him. As for his work as the Green Arrow, he still felt it was necessary, but it became harder and harder to go out there every day, risking his life, not knowing if there was anyone who would notice if, one night, he didn't come back.  
  
Taking hold of the black coffee he had ordered while he waited for his dinner companion to join him, Oliver took a sip of the steaming liquid. Despite having ordered it more than ten minutes before, it still scalded his mouth, but he didn't put it down. He held it in his hands, and he allowed the ceramic to warm him from the outside in, and he chastised himself for his self-pitying thoughts. The truth of the matter was that Oliver was alone because that's how he wanted it. Being alone was easier, cleaner. His life worked better with fewer complications and personal commitments. After all, he couldn't even manage to make it to parent-teacher night. How could he possibly be anything more than just a CEO and a vigilante?  
  
Despite this, he had people in his life. There was Thea. Oliver loved his sister, and he knew that she loved him, but their relationship had never recovered from his _death_ and all the secrets returning from the dead had forced him to keep. All the secrets that keeping the more human parts of his personality dead and buried had made him want to keep. Plus, despite all her baggage and unlike him, Thea still managed to adapt and become a fully functioning member of society. She lived, she loved, she laughed. Oliver would always be Thea's brother, but he wasn't her world. And he wouldn't want to be. Thea had her career, and she was married. Thea had a wide circle of friends and friendly acquaintances. She was fulfilled on every level.  
  
Oliver had friends, too... well, as much as he allowed anyone to be his friend. There was Digg who had always been more partner than friend. While he trusted the other man, friendship would imply that they talked about more than just Oliver's mission. Hell, it would imply that, at some point, his mission would have become theirs, but John Diggle had firmly kept his home life separate from his responsibilities as Oliver's bodyguard by day and backup at night.   
  
Then, there was Roy Harper – Thea's husband. At first, their relationship had been strained, because Oliver had not been willing to accept anyone as being good enough for his little sister, especially not some punk from the wrong side of the tracks, but Roy's devotion to Thea eventually wore down Oliver's resolve to dislike the man his sister chose to make her life with, and, eventually, the two of them bonded over their mutual love for Thea. However, their interaction remained limited to small talk over family dinners and commiserating over the things Speedy somehow convinced them to do for her.   
  
As for sex, Oliver wasn't a monk, but he had certainly slowed down from his former playboy days. Sex was still a great way to relieve stress and tension, to find some kind of release for all the emotions Oliver kept bottled up, but it was also, quite frankly, a hassle as well. He had no patience for dating, no patience for the questions that fell from everyone's lips when they first saw the scars that marred a good quarter of his flesh. Furthermore, sex was no longer the validation it had once been for him. Oliver found his self-worth in other ways now, and it just wasn't the same anyway – not without Tommy by his side, egging him on and challenging him. So, while he was attracted to Felicity – no, Ms. Smoak; Oliver needed to keep this cordial yet still professional – and while he was lonely, their dinner could be nothing more than a parent and a teacher discussing their child and student, respectively, over food.  
  
That was... if she ever showed up.  
  
Yes, they had left separately, and, yes, Oliver wasn't exactly known for sticking to the speed limit, but it didn't even take fifteen minutes to get from Starling Prep to Big Belly Burger, let alone allow for that much discrepancy between their arrival times. As the minutes ticked by, and he slowly drained his coffee cup, Oliver came to realize that, despite her agreement to have dinner with him, Ms. Smoak was standing him up – no phone call (because they hadn't exchanged numbers), no word.  
  
Setting his mug down and reaching for his wallet – Oliver was hungry, but he'd go eat something alone at home, not in the middle of a nearly deserted fast food restaurant, he admitted to himself that Felicity Smoak not showing was a good thing.  
  
It was for the best.  
  
“I am an _extremely_ intelligent, strong, successful woman. I am a confident, competent woman. I am a single parent who... well, okay, maybe my relationship status isn't important here. But, you know what? No, it is important. Because, for the past seventeen years, I have been at least attempting to raise my daughter on my own, and that is perhaps my greatest accomplishment yet. Furthermore, I am an excellent teacher.” Finally taking a breath, the rigid, embarrassed woman standing before Oliver's booth retroactively explained her little speech. “While I realize that I may not have put my best foot forward... if you don't count shoving it into my own mouth, which I don't, I need you to realize that the woman you met earlier tonight, she's not me. I mean, she is,” Felicity allowed, shrugging her shoulders and wincing slightly. “She's, like, the worst version of me, but you startled me, and you make me nervous, and I just... I wasn't expecting....”  
  
With compassion... and a warm, charmed smile to wordlessly express it, Oliver interrupted her, “I never doubted that. You.” With the reassurance, Ms. Smoak slowly took her seat across from him, but she remained silent, apparently wanting him to clarify further. “I don't know my son – Connor – well... at least, not in the traditional sense. I don't know how old he was when he lost his first tooth, and I have no idea what his favorite movie is. But I know him in that I like him. I think he's... amazing, and I respect him. So, the fact that he likes you and that he respects you....” She went to protest, but Oliver kept talking over her, which he had a feeling was no small feat. “He didn't have to say anything. I watched you. I saw your reaction when I introduced myself, and it's obvious that you know my son well, that he confides in you. Trust me when I tell you how rare that is and that Connor's approval of you was all I needed to know that you are a remarkable woman, Felicity.”  
  
So much for keeping it professional.  
  
In light of her insecurities and her willingness to be so vulnerable with him, Oliver's determination to stop... whatever it was that was happening between them before it could really and truly get started disappeared. He couldn't see her upset without trying to comfort her, and, despite his best intentions, he just couldn't bring himself to _not_ call her Felicity. For a man so scared – and, yes, Oliver could admit there were things in life that scared the shit out of him – of familiarity, of his own deeper emotions, he also found that he liked the intimacy of calling Felicity by her first name too much to stop.  
  
“See,” Felicity's emphatic voice brought him back into the moment. “ _This_ is why you make me nervous. Well, _this_ and...,” she waved her right hand in a circular manner towards him, “... all _that_.”  
  
Before he could respond – not that Oliver knew what he was going to say, not that he was even sure he'd be able to form a response, their waitress came up to the table, and they ordered. It seemed to be a silent agreement between them, as they waited for their food to arrive, that they not talk, that they both take a few minutes to compose themselves. Already, it had been such a roller-coaster of a night, and Oliver had a suspicion that the thrilling yet terrifying ride was only just beginning.   
  
It was only once Felicity had bit into her Big Belly Buster, hold the bacon – _Jewish here_ – that he finally decided which route he wanted to take with their conversation. “So, how long did you sit in your car practicing that speech you greeted me with when you first arrived?”  
  
Felicity colored but she didn't deny his assumption. “Too long for as many tangents that I still managed to squeeze in there.”  
  
Oliver slipped an entire fry into his mouth before grinning. “I like your tangents. Everything in my life is so... predictable, controlled. _I'm_ so predictable and controlled. Yet, tonight – with you, for the first time in... years, I did something spontaneous.”  
  
It was highly dangerous, and perhaps that's why it felt so good. Oliver had long since become an adrenaline junkie. While his old means of feeling that rush had faded over the years, this – Felicity – was a new high. An addictive one. Before he knew it, their food was gone, their trays cleared away, and their waitress was giving them the side-eye, because they were the only ones there, keeping her from closing up. However, they had yet to talk about Connor – not because, in Felicity, Oliver had lost interest in his son or because she had made him forget about his kid but because, in Felicity, Oliver had found an interest in and remembered himself again.   
  
Nervous – looking down, Oliver found that he was rubbing his left thumb over his calloused fore and middle fingers of that same hand – and impulsive – he held his breath while he waited for Felicity to answer, he entreated, “have breakfast with me tomorrow.”  
  
Teeth in bottom lip, blue eyes alight with warmth and a smile, and her cheeks flushed with pleasure, Felicity turned him down. “I can't. Between work and the off chance that my daughter actually deigns to grace me with her presence and catches a ride with me....” He understood her reasons, but that didn't stop Oliver from feeling disappointed. “But what about lunch?”  
  
It would make his schedule a nightmare. Oliver had back to back to back meetings all day long, and traffic, even in the afternoon, was never light in downtown Starling where the Queen Consolidated building was located. Despite this, he found himself agreeing anyway. “It's a date.”  
  
Standing up, he waited for Felicity to join him on her feet, his right hand automatically finding the small of her back as he walked her out of the restaurant and to her car. In the chilly, damp air, they finalized their plans for the next day. Even after they agreed upon Oliver picking up something for them to eat on his way to the school, they both lingered. They talked about inconsequential things that, in their insignificance, were important. Even after he wished a yawning Felicity a good night and watched her drive away, Oliver hesitated to leave himself. He eventually climbed into his car, though. It wasn't until he was halfway home to the Queen Mansion that he now shared with his son that he realized something.  
  
While, physically, he was alone once more, Oliver no longer felt lonely. 


	5. FF#33: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Five

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #33: Hide From Evil**

**Chapter Five**

Felicity Smoak was very much a creature of habit. She liked routines. She liked predictability. She even liked schedules – always had... even as a child. While she was invariably the first to embrace new technologies, she had been drinking the same cup of coffee – not literally, because one cup would _never_ be enough and also was there anything worse than stale, hard java? Okay, yes, there was mayonnaise. Felicity had an almost obsessive hatred of the condiment. And there was Windows... every generation. But this wasn't her point. Her point was that she had been drinking the same _brand_ of coffee since college... minus that nine month sabbatical she'd been forced to take away from that which was practically her life blood. And she never rearranged her furniture. (Wasn't that just asking for a stubbed toe – or worse – in the middle of the night?) And she always cleaned the bathrooms on Saturday. After all, cleanliness was practically next to godliness, right, so what could be more observing of the sabbath than scrubbing soap scum and toilet bowl rust?  
  
Even when something happened in her life that was a surprise – like Oliver asking her to have lunch with him after their impromptu, irrational dinner the night before – Felicity tried to balance the deviation away from her norm with tried and true behavior. So, she was treating that morning like any other. She got up, she made coffee, she brushed her teeth while waiting for the beloved stimulant to percolate. While drinking her first cup, she meandered around online, checking out the morning's news-news and, more importantly, its tech-news. She ate a bagel (with smear). She showered, she shampooed, she soaped. She spent a ridiculous amount of time taming the wild nest commonly considered her hair. Felicity then put on her makeup, and she made her way towards her closet where, upon a long ago established pattern, she selected the next outfit up for wear. It was simpler that way – allowing yet another schedule to dictate her fashion choices in the morning. Otherwise, she'd spend far too much time weighing her options, and, with Mia, Felicity didn't need any more reasons to be late.  
  
Seemingly in one motion, she laid the dress of the day upon her unmade bed and untied the belt of her robe. As she shrugged the silky fabric off her shoulders, she crossed the room towards her dresser, opening the top drawer to remove the coordinating undergarments that would work best with that day's outfit. Humming softly to herself because, despite trying to tamper down any feelings she wouldn't be experiencing if her lunch was with any other parent besides Oliver, Felicity couldn't deny that she was excited about their... planned meal together, she first slipped on her panties and then shrugged her way into her bra. Afterwards... like with any other morning, Felicity turned to grab her dress, but, for reasons she didn't understand (and wasn't sure she wanted to contemplate too intimately), her gaze became caught in the mirror, her eyes immediately drawn to the vast amount of skin on display while she wore only her lingerie. To her cleanly kept bikini line. To the faded but still very visible scar resting low upon her abdomen and just above the line of her panties.  
  
Mia had been a c-section baby.  
  
It hadn't been planned, and it wasn't because of immediate distress upon either Felicity or her unborn daughter at the time but rather her labor had been progressing too slowly, her cervix failing to open up enough for vaginal delivery. At the time, Felicity had just been scared and in pain. She hadn't been capable of thinking too much about why her body had fought so hard against giving birth, but, now, looking back, she wondered if it was just because it knew she wasn't emotionally ready to be a mother. Rubbing the fingers of her right hand against the scar, Felicity smiled softly at the overly sentimental thought, because, seventeen years later, she knew that no woman was ever really ready to become a mother, let alone one who was a child herself.

 _With her eyes tightly shut, Felicity ground her teeth together. It no longer hurt. Well, that was a lie. She was pretty sure her body would never_ not _hurt again, but this type of pain was different than before when she was still trying to naturally give birth. This was the remembered stiffness of abused muscles; this was the dull ache of exhaustion. As she listened to her doctor and nurses flutter about her, preparing for the cesarean they were about to perform, she braced herself not for the searing, white hot burn of a scalpel slicing through skin, for she had been given an epidural and was now blissfully numb from the waist down (if only the numbness could spread towards her heart as well), but because her time was up. Whether she liked it or not, her daughter was going to be born in a matter of minutes. There was no more running, no more hiding.  
  
When she had been asked if she'd like mirrors positioned so she could see her child's birth, Felicity had snapped. Even without offering an explanation, her quick and heated dismissal had been met with smiling eyes and soft smiles. A baby practically herself, the nurses just assumed Felicity was squeamish – that the thought of watching a knife cut into her belly and then her uterus; of a messy, rubbery infant being pulled out and away from inside of her made Felicity close her eyes in fear of throwing up. It didn't cross their minds that, in reality, while labor was disgusting, she really didn't want to see the birth of her own child, because the visual would only make it that much more real. No one – not the nurses, not her doctor, not even Felicity's own mother – was aware of her very complicated, very thorny emotions in regards to becoming a mom.  
  
Put aside her age. Forget that Felicity had always promised herself that, no matter what, she'd never become Donna Smoak 2.0. Those concerns, while they had initially weighed upon her shoulders when she discovered her unplanned and certainly unwanted pregnancy, had long since faded. In comparison to everything else she was feeling, self-disappointment and embarrassment were petty and unimportant. No, what mattered was the obligation Felicity felt towards having her unborn child and the resentment that obligation bred within her heart.  
  
Upon discovering she was alone – not because of a one night stand or because of a breakup but because her boyfriend was in _ federal prison – _and knocked up, Felicity had gone to visit Cooper in jail. The decision about what to do in regards to_ their _child wasn't just Felicity's, and she was selfish enough to want the reassurance of the man she loved... even if he was offering it to her from behind a bulletproof, plate-glass window. Only, seeing Cooper did absolutely nothing to calm Felicity's anxiety. She told him about the baby, and he dismissed the issue, treated it – he or she – like they didn't matter. And maybe, when you're already set upon suicide, the lives you leave behind fade in importance. But Felicity hadn't known, during that visit, that her boyfriend planned on killing himself. It was only afterwards that she started to put the pieces together.  
  
At that point, however, it was too late. Cooper killed himself, and, no matter how she felt about becoming a statistic, Felicity couldn't kill the last connection she had to the man she loved. At the same time, she hated that Cooper left her with such a responsibility, with such guilt. How was she to look in their child's eyes and tell them that it was her fault their father was dead? Felicity kept her baby because of a man who wouldn't fight to stay with them, and then, because she had nowhere else to place those weighted, heavy emotions, transferred them unto the tiny, innocent shoulders of her daughter. While she knew it wasn't fair, neither was life, and, as she bit through her lip to the point of drawing blood in the effort to keep from crying – from sobbing in fear, and heartbreak, and shame, and remorse – Felicity prayed that time would slow down, that her daughter would never be born; she prayed that the doctors and the nurses would just get it over with already.  
  
“Hey mom,” a gentle voice interrupted her concentration. Without thinking of the consequences of her actions, Felicity whimpered at the sweet, unwanted moniker being used to address her, and she opened her eyes. “I'm sorry,” the nurse quickly apologized, apparently recalling Felicity's directive to never call her _ that _. “I meant Felicity.” The nurse sounded harried and flustered, confused as to how to react to such a cold and unconventional delivery. But Felicity could pay her no mind. In fact, she barely heard the words coming from the other woman's lips. Instead, her attention was solely focused upon the squirming, squalling child displayed before her. “Would you like to hold your daughter?”_  
  
_“Mia. Her name's Mia,” she whispered, already reaching for the infant. As soon as the baby was in her arms, Felicity explained her insistence... even if no one was listening or cared. “She's not mine. And she's not his. She's... her own person – as tiny, and as new, and as sticky as she is in this moment.” And then she laughed. She laughed at herself; she laughed at her naivete. She laughed at, objectively, how gross a newborn baby was but how beautiful she found Mia anyway. She laughed at how foolish she had been, how blind, how stupid, because, with one look at Mia, Felicity fell in love. And she didn't love the little girl because she was a part of Cooper; she loved her because, when she was placed in Felicity's arms, Mia stopped crying. And she loved her, because she was stubborn, and proud, and impossible. Five minutes old, and Felicity could already tell that Mia would be a handful. And she loved her, because, really, Mia left her no other choice._

With a shake of her head, Felicity pushed away her memories from the day Mia had been born. Because she had been right all those years ago – Mia was stubborn, and proud, and impossible, Felicity did not have time to stray from her carefully crafted schedule. She left both the mirror and the past behind, and she moved towards her bed. Stepping through the open expanse of her dress, she wiggled the fabric up and over her hips before stretching her arms behind her to zip the sheath closed. Moving back towards her dresser, she snagged a cardigan for warmth and then slipped on a favorite pair of dangling earrings. It was only in selecting her shoes that Felicity paused, angling her head to the side in consideration.  
  
“Oh, what the hell,” she remarked playfully, tucking her feet into a pair of impossibly high heels instead of the flats she usually wore to work. Although she loved fancy shoes, she couldn't afford the good ones, and teaching was not a profession that lended itself well to wearing stilettos. Usually, Felicity saved her high heels for days when she knew she'd be seated the majority of the time – days when all she was doing was administering standardized tests, days when the kids were off and she was stuck in mind-numbing meetings – and nights when she rarely went out on dates.  
  
Ready for the day and whatever it might bring and armed with the confidence high heels afforded her, Felicity left her bedroom and moved down the hall towards Mia's. Unlike Felicity, Mia did not have a morning routine. She didn't take the time to slowly wake up over a steaming cup of coffee, and she certainly didn't eat breakfast. Perhaps it made her a bad parent, but, with all their other fights, that was one battle Felicity had long since given up on. In fact, they were just lucky if Mia managed to roll out of bed early enough to shrug on some clothes in time for Felicity to drop her off at school. It'd be easier if Mia went to Starling Prep, but Felicity's daughter had burned those bridges – and the paper her scholarship had once been typed upon – years ago.  
  
Knocking softly so as not to trigger her daughter's temper but loud enough to show her that she meant business, Felicity spoke through the heavy wood, “Mia, come on, we're going to be late.” While, typically, Felicity didn't receive a polite response, Mia usually said something to her – some mumbled complaint or yelled obscenity. There were even mornings when, instead of talking with her words, Mia told Felicity just what she could do with her admonishments by throwing something towards the closed door. However, silence was rare enough to immediately cause Felicity worry, because she remembered what a quiet Mia had meant in the past.  
  
She'd never be able to forget.  
  
“This isn't funny, Mia,” as her anxiety grew, so, too, did the volume of her voice. “Open this door. I need to see that you're up. I need to know that you're....” The word that flashed through Felicity's mind was alive, but she wouldn't put that thought out into the universe and give it weight by actually saying it. “ … that you're awake.” When still she didn't receive a response, Felicity ignored all of Mia's requests for privacy and trust – trust that she had broken, and abused, and failed to return so many times in the past – and tried to open her daughter's door. Only... it was locked. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Felicity slouched against the jamb, her forehead falling to rest against the wooden door. “Oh god, no. Not again.”  
  
Deciding not to panic, deciding that jumping to conclusions (even if they were heavily supported by evidence from past behavior) wouldn't help anybody, not Felicity and certainly not Mia, in that moment, she quickly pushed aside her panic and fear and, instead, tried to approach the situation logically. Striding back down the hall towards her own room, Felicity immediately went to her bedside table where her cell phone was charging for the day. Without checking to see if it had a full charge yet or not, she unplugged it, unlocked it, and was dialing an all too familiar number before she could second guess or dismiss her hope.  
  
“Ugh, too early,” her mother grumbled once she picked up after five rings. “I love you, but some of us work at night. And have a life.”  
  
Briefly, Felicity wondered what Donna Smoak would think or say if she knew her only, perpetually single daughter had a sort of, kind of, maybe lunch date with a sizzling hot billionaire that afternoon. But that instinct to throw Oliver in her mother's face was born from years of listening to her mom harass her about her lack of a personal life, and it was quickly forgotten in light of her worry.  
  
“Mom.” Her harsh, clipped tone immediately sobered Donna. In her mind, she could see her mother sitting up in bed, her sleeping mask pushed up and into hair messy from sleep and the previous night's abuse. “Have you heard from Mia? When was the last time you talked to her?”  
  
Felicity and her daughter didn't get along. They couldn't agree on anything, and they had nothing in common. It was a haunting reflection of Felicity's relationship with her own mother when Mia's age. Yet, despite her lack of respect towards her only parent, Mia adored her grandmother. The two were close enough that, when Felicity couldn't find her daughter, her first instinct was to call Donna despite her being more than five hundred miles away in another city, in another state.  
  
“No, no, she hasn't called me in a few days, and I've just been so busy....” Her mother's words trailed off as they both realized how weak yet honest of an excuse that was. With a resigned sigh, Donna asked, “it's starting again, isn't it?”  
  
Sitting down bonelessly on the edge of her bed, Felicity used the strangling hold she had on her cell to help keep her frustration and panic at bay. “When has it ever really stopped?”  
  
Not knowing what to say – with nothing to say, both women just sat there in silence, united over space and long forgiven and forgotten past differences by their grief. For several minutes, they just... were. They breathed. They supported each other by being there the only way they could. But then Felicity squared her shoulders, because sitting around long enough so that she was late for work wouldn't solve anything. Standing up, she kicked off her heels and shoved her feet into her regular, dependable flats. “I have to go, mom, but I'll call you... when I know something. When I find her.”  
  
“Alright. I love you, Felicity.”  
  
While it went unsaid, she could also hear, in her mother's declaration, everything that Donna didn't say: _I'm proud of you. I believe in you. You're a good mom._  
  
“I love you, too.”  
  
Ending the call, Felicity dropped her phone into her purse, picked up her tote, and went to work.

 


	6. FF#34: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Six

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

**Flash Fic Prompt #34: Lust Muffin & ABSolutely**

**Chapter Six**

Felicity could be his friend. His confidant. His parenting guru. But that was it. That was where Oliver would draw the line – where he had to draw the line, because, no matter what he wanted, he had to do what Felicity, and her daughter, and even Oliver's own son needed. While he was in too deep to get out of the vigilante business at that point, he could decide who else he pulled down along with him, and Felicity and her family would not be on that list.   
  
It would be enough, Oliver was convinced. After last night, after just eating some greasy fast food with another adult and engaging in a genuine, mature conversation, he had felt satisfied. His life was still otherwise a mess, but Oliver had gone home with a weight lifted from his shoulders, and that was without seeking physical comfort from Felicity. If friendship had sustained him then, it would sustain him moving forward.   
  
As Oliver left work, as he blandly tried to pass off the mid-day meeting as a make-up parent/teacher conference to Diggle, as he avoided his bodyguard's inquisitive gaze when they stopped to pick up lunch, and as Oliver made his way down the now bright and airy with the afternoon sun and sounds of a busy high school hallway, he kept repeating this mantra in his head. The more he said it to himself, the more he believed it; and the more he believed it, the more determined Oliver was to see it through. And he'd do so in a way that wouldn't hurt Felicity's feelings or make her think that there was something wrong with her, something that had pushed him away.   
  
But then he walked into her classroom.  
  
Oliver walked into her classroom, and he saw her distant, haunted expression, and he realized that, at some point since he had left her the night before, she had completely forgotten about their lunch-time date.  
  
 _No, not date. Meeting.  
  
_ Looking out into the sea of unoccupied computer stations, Felicity appeared to be sightlessly staring at nothing. She certainly didn't hear him approach. Bearing in mind what happened the last time he startled her, Oliver side-eyed the little, portable heater which was tucked safely away behind her desk and took tentative steps. In one hand, she tightly clutched her cell phone, while the other was busy being mauled by her teeth. With her brightly painted nails, Felicity didn't seem like a candidate for that particular nervous habit, but then Oliver noticed that her lips were raw and cracked, bloodied, and long since abandoned in favor of her cuticles. Her anxiety was palpable.   
  
He decided to treat her like a wounded animal. Perhaps it wasn't the most flattering of comparisons, but it was fitting nonetheless. So, taking an indirect route, Oliver skirted the edge of the classroom until he could round the room and approach Felicity directly. Upon entering her line of sight... even if she wasn't actually seeing anything, he made as much noise as possible. He used his entire foot as he stepped forward, especially the heel, and he knocked his hands on top of the computer desks that were to each side of the aisle he was traversing. Finally, just when he was about to throw caution to the wind and say her name, Felicity glanced up from underneath her wet lashes. Oliver could tell that she hadn't cried yet, but it had been quite the struggle to hold the tears back. Although she didn't say anything, he recognized the flicker of awareness that traveled through her features. She knew he was there.  
  
“What's wrong,” he immediately asked. Call it rude – after all, they had just met, so it was more than just a little presumptuous to forego all courtesy and just demand her confidence – or call it fatalistic, but, after nearly twenty years of the worst case scenario, Oliver didn't have the patience for and he liked her too much to entertain banal pleasantries or to ignore the obvious. The sooner she told him what had happened, the sooner he could fix it. If someone had hurt her, he would hurt them. After all, that's what he did. But then a stray thought – a little trickle of fear – made Oliver pull up short. What if it wasn't Felicity; what if.... “Oh, god. Is it Connor?”  
  
“What?” She shook her head as if to clear away the cobwebs, and, in his own, unexpected worry, Oliver stumbled forward, all grace forgotten in the face of the horrible things that could have befallen his son. It was irrational, but he couldn't.... “No.” This time, when Felicity shook her head, it was to deny his question, and Oliver felt his heart restart... only to immediately feel like a jerk. “Connor's fine.”  
  
“I'm sorry,” Oliver apologized. He skirted the corner of Felicity's desk and then perched himself on the edge. With impossibly wide eyes, she looked up at him as he explained, “I shouldn't have just assumed... I mean, if it had been Connor, someone would have called me – either the school, or his mother, or my sister. To just automatically think that you were upset because of my kid, that... was dismissive.”  
  
“I'm the one who should be sorry,” Felicity shocked him – not because she reached out and braided her right hand with his left but because she was taking the blame. “If you had any idea what kind of parent I thought you were after talking with Connor.... Well, let's just say that my glass house has been shattered.” She further bowled him over by saying, “if no one has told you this yet, Oliver Queen, let me be the first: you're a good dad. Connor will see that... eventually. And I get it – how you could just automatically think that, when there's something wrong, it's with your kid. Parenthood isn't rational.”  
  
“Yeah, but I've only been a parent for a few months. I shouldn't feel this... paranoid all the time, should I?”  
  
“When they placed Mia in my arms for the first time, it was like... whiplash – all the emotions I suddenly felt. And that was with a newborn who had the capability of imprinting upon me.”  
  
“ _Imprinting_?,” Oliver questioned, chuckling silently under his breath. In his selfish worry for his own child, he was glad that he had been able to bring a little lightness back to Felicity... even if only temporarily.   
  
She ignored him, however, plowing forward with her thought. “I couldn't imagine what it must be like to become a parent to a teenager. A baby has to love you, because they don't know any better yet, but a teenager? There is no tougher crowd than that.”  
  
As grateful as he was that he could provide Felicity with a moment of levity and that Connor was alright, he was still concerned about her and what had caused her earlier distress and distraction, why she had been battling back tears all day. Squeezing her hand once in reassurance, Oliver refocused them upon what was wrong. “Why are you upset, Felicity? Who hurt you?”  
  
“I'm not hurt,” she immediately protested. But then her pale with apprehension, pale with worry face screwed up in consideration, and Felicity started back-peddling. “I mean, not in the traditional sense. Physically, I'm fine. As for everything else, I guess you could say that I'm hurt _ing_ , because I'm sad, and I'm disappointed, and I'm scared, and I'm....”  
  
Oliver latched onto that, interrupting her. “You're scared? Scared of what? Who?”  
  
If Felicity noticed his preoccupation with needing a target to focus upon, she didn't react to his insistence or comment upon it. Instead, she stood up, letting go of his hand in order to start pacing. Although she was no longer biting the cuticles of her right hand, she still held tightly to her cell phone. “Mia wasn't in her room this morning.”  
  
Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. This he could deal with; this he could handle. Teenage rebellion and promiscuity? Yeah, he was familiar with those. “Say no more. Tell me the kid's name, and I'll take care of this.” If he couldn't scare off some teenage punk, then he had no business calling himself a vigilante anymore.   
  
Stopping so abruptly that she rocked forward before regaining her balance, Felicity said, “if only it were that simple, Oliver.” Confused, he wrinkled his brow, and Felicity took that as her cue to explain further. “I haven't been entirely... upfront about my relationship with my daughter or, well, about Mia herself, actually. I've hinted that things aren't great between us.”  
  
“What parent doesn't have problems with their teenage kid,” Oliver offered in reassurance.   
  
She ignored him. “But I haven't told you why. Maybe I was afraid it would scare you off. I've tried dating in the past.” Oliver's resolve to remain just Felicity's friend should have had him speaking up then and telling her that their lunch wasn't a date, but, in the face of Felicity's obvious pain and devastation, he had forgotten every last reason he had resigned himself to maintaining a platonic relationship with her. “If I actually managed to find a guy who was alright with me having a teenage daughter, then they immediately broke up with me after they met Mia. Or I confided in them about... the complexity of our lives.”  
  
“Does this have something to do with Mia's father,” Oliver guessed.  
  
“Yes and no,” Felicity answered. Compulsively, she glanced down at her phone's display and then sighed in resignation after confirming that it was still unchanged. Oliver noticed that her hands were now shaking. Refocusing upon him, she dismissed the topic of Mia's father. “But the whys have long since faded in importance, because debating them, trying to understand them, does absolutely nothing in helping me help my daughter.” Taking a deep breath, Felicity swallowed thickly. As she pressed forward, she looked everywhere but at him, refusing to meet his gaze. “Oliver, Mia's an addict – has been one now for years. Every single penny I have ever earned and managed to save has been used to get her clean. I've taken out loans to send her to rehab. She's been in and out of treatment facilities since she was thirteen. It's been years since I've recognized my own daughter, but I keep fighting. I keep trying. Because eventually, one day, it's going to stick. Right?”  
  
As his feet ate up the slight distance that separated them, Oliver noticed that Felicity's bloody, bottom lip was once more caught between her teeth. Not knowing what to say, he ineptly settled on simply saying her name. “Felicity....”  
  
“When I went to make sure she was up for school this morning, her door was locked, and she wasn't there. My mom hasn't heard from her in days, and I was so tired when I got home last night that I just went to bed.” Starting to panic, starting to yell at herself, Felicity rhetorically asked, finally meeting his eyes, “who does that? What kind of mother doesn't check in on her daughter – her _addict_ of a daughter – every night, no matter what?”  
  
Oliver was familiar enough with self recrimination that he knew better than to try to reassure Felicity in that moment. Instead, he focused upon being proactive. “Where all have you looked for her?”  
  
“I've called the police; I've called all the local hospitals. I tried checking in with the few friends I thought Mia still had only to learn that she, apparently, doesn't have any friends. I've tried shelters, clinics, and every NA and AA meeting location in the city. No one has seen her. Short of going down to the Glades and trying to find her dealer, I'm now just stuck waiting until I hear back from... until she shows up.”  
  
There was nothing he could say... which was a good thing, because Oliver was horrible with words. So, instead, he followed his instincts – an entirely different set than those that had made him assume earlier that there was something wrong with Connor – and he pulled Felicity into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. She didn't look away, and he couldn't have even if he had wanted to. Which he didn't. Noses brushing together, he once more realized just how petite and fragile Felicity was, her strength of personality, until he was actually embracing her, having deceived him. As he held her, Oliver didn't offer her platitudes, or empty promises, or pity. Instead, just as she had made him feel the night before, Oliver tried to show Felicity that she wasn't alone anymore – that he was there for her, that he would continue to be there for her. Unlike everyone else who had entered her life in the past, he wasn't running away. And she seemed to understand what his body was trying to wordlessly communicate, because her shoulders relaxed, and she sighed, and her hands came up to rest against his abdomen.   
  
So, he kissed her. He took her battered lips, and he cradled them between his own, and he didn't let her go... not even when his son entered the classroom, slamming the door behind him. 

 


	7. FF#35: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Seven

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

**Flash Fic Prompt #35: A Shot Rang out**

**Chapter Seven**

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Before she could even adjust to the intrusion, before she could even blink, Felicity then felt her left arm being jerked, the momentum of the tug being used to propel her backwards and away from Oliver. “Don't touch her!”  
  
“Connor?”  
  
But the teenager in question ignored his father's reprimand; he ignored all of Oliver's shock and disappointment wrapped up in that one word: his name. Instead of responding to his dad, Connor turned back towards her. “Do you even know who he is?”  
  
Felicity didn't have the time nor the patience for Connor's...tantrum – not when she still had no idea where Mia was, not when she didn't even know if her own daughter was still alive. Yet, in the same breath, she had nothing but time as she waited for word... or for Mia to show up again. Habitually, desperately, Felicity glanced down at her silent, still phone – its dark screen confirming what she already knew... or, more accurately, didn't know. “It's not like I go around kissing strangers, Connor.” As she snapped at him, Felicity clenched. She clenched her fist around her cell, and she clenched her jaw, her words coming out from between her set teeth.   
  
But Connor paid her body language no mind, lost in his own selfish ire. Snorting in derision, he snarked, “you'd be better off.”  
  
“That's enough,” Oliver bit out. He stepped forward both in an effort to shield Felicity and also to highlight how serious he was by looking his son squarely in the eyes. “I get it. You hate me, and I can even admit that you have your reasons, but you do not get to take that anger out on Felicity.”  
  
“Why her,” Connor exploded. Agitated, he lifted his hands, and spidered them through his hair. It was slightly too long and already messy – the exact opposite cut of his father's, though their coloring matched, and the gesture further displayed just how different the two Queen men were. As Felicity hung back behind Oliver, she listened intently to their argument – not because she cared (she did; their relationship just wasn't very high on her priority list that day) but because, despite the ugliness that was the state of their family, it was better than the dark and fatalistic fears assaulting her thoughts. “You could have any woman in this godforsaken city, but you had to go after the only one who sees me – not your son, not the next Queen heir, not the bastard that Ollie Queen was able to hide away for seventeen years – for _me_. ”  
  
“Connor, it's not like that,” Oliver tried to protest. Felicity wasn't sure what exactly he was arguing against – maybe everything his son had said, but Connor wouldn't hear it. Any of it.  
  
“I don't care what it's like. Just... stay away from her.”  
  
When Oliver didn't respond, when the room fell silent, Felicity found her eyes lifting from her cell to study the men before her. Whereas Connor was practically vibrating with unleashed energy, Oliver was still. His head was bowed forward, and he was taking steady, deep breaths. If it wasn't for the tight line of his back and shoulders – oh, and some strange tick where he rubbed the pads of his index and middle fingers of his right hand against the ball of his thumb, she wouldn't have been able to tell how agitated he was. The older man was pulled taut, a bow string poised to be released. But, when Oliver tipped his head back up to look at his kid, he somehow managed to remain composed, and Felicity was both awed and intimidated by his control.   
  
“You are my son, Connor. While I know you don't believe me, I do love you. And we are a family. But we're both new at this, so we're going to make mistakes. I'm willing to figure this all out with you, though. But there's a line.” As he talked, Oliver's words became stronger. They went from placating his only child to warning him. “If a decision I have to make impacts you, impacts our family, then you should and will have a voice. But who I'm friends with, who I date, who I kiss? That is my business – and my business alone – until the point where it becomes serious. Only then will your opinion be asked for... and only in regards to _my_ actions, _my_ choices.”  
  
“It's not about you,” Connor protested, his exasperation leaking into his voice and causing his volume to rise. “It's about her; it's about Ms. Smoak and the fact that she's too good....”  
  
“Do you even want to know how your father and I met,” Felicity interrupted the teenager.   
  
While she expected her question to draw Connor's attention, she never thought he'd mouth back. The student, the young man, she knew had always been respectful. That teenager would have listened to what she had to say without interruption or rudeness. But the Connor before her that afternoon.... “Knowing his track record, probably at the bottom of a tequila bottle.”  
  
Hurt, Felicity whispered, “I'm not sure who that's more insulting towards.”  
  
Still not ready to entertain anyone else's opinion but his own, Connor justified his retort, “you're defending a man who has only been in _one_ serious relationship his _entire life_... and I am the product of a drunken, one night stand he had while _cheating_ on her.”  
  
“Shut up,” she barked, finally having had enough. “Shut your mouth and just listen, because guess what? I don't care. I don't care about your mom, and I don't care about the past, and I don't care why it took Oliver seventeen years to become a part of your life. Because you told me that he has no interest in being a parent, yet I met him at Parent-Teacher night.”  
  
“That was last night,” Connor yelled, rolling his eyes. Addressing his father, he accused, “and you're already trying to seduce her!” Before either Felicity or Oliver could counter, the teen added, “plus, why didn't any of my other teachers, _the less attractive ones_ , mention you were here last night, huh?”  
  
“I was late.”  
  
“And I threatened him with a portable heater,” Felicity picked up the explanation. “Somehow, that led to him asking me to meet with him over a late dinner, and we just....”  
  
“I liked her,” Oliver revealed softly. If it wasn't for the fact that her daughter was missing, Felicity would have been blushing with pleasure. “I really _like_ her.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you don't deserve her.”  
  
“And that's my call to make, Connor, not yours,” Felicity corrected her student. When he went to argue further, she decided to break out the big guns. Since Connor had started opening up to her about his father and their new, rocky relationship, Felicity had vacillated back and forth on whether or not she should get involved, but Mia's latest relapse had put some things into perspective – one of which was Connor's grudge against his dad.   
  
“When I was a little girl, I adored my father. He was my best friend, my idol. I didn't just think that he hung the moon; I thought he invented it, made it, and controlled it. But then one day, when I was seven, I came home from school, and he wasn't there. I wasn't worried, though. I knew where the hide-a-key was, so I let myself into the house, and I waited for him to come home. I told myself that he was just at the store, buying us an after-school snack or picking up a missing piece for whatever electronic device he was working on that week. So, while I waited for him to come home, I poured myself a glass of milk, and I started my homework.  
  
“Now, in second grade, you don't get a lot of homework, and, for a genius, it seemed like even less. Once I was finished, I rinsed my glass, gathered up some of my favorite books, and I went out to my dad's workshop to wait for him there... so I'd be ready to help him whenever he got home. I don't know how long I lasted, but, eventually, I fell asleep. It wasn't until many hours later when my mom, frantic after searching the entire house for me, woke me up that I realized he never came back. My dad wasn't just running late, and he hadn't just forgotten me. He had left us, and I never heard from him again.   
  
“When I graduated early from high school, he didn't surprise me by showing up. I didn't look out into the audience and find him proudly listening to my valedictorian speech with tears in his eyes and a smile on his face. He never called while I was at MIT – the school I chose because of him, because of the love of technology and machinery he passed down to me. He wasn't there when my college boyfriend was arrested for using a super-virus _I_ created, when I found out I was pregnant, when the father of my child preferred suicide over being there for his family from afar while in prison, when I had to drop out of my dream school and move back home, when I gave birth to my only child while still a scared little girl myself, when my daughter overdosed for the first time, or this morning when I went to get Mia up for school only to realize that she's missing. Again.”  
  
Felicity paused briefly to allow her words to sink in. When she started talking once more, she moved around Oliver so that she was standing toe-to-toe with his son. “So, I'm sorry, Connor, that your father has disappointed you. That _sucks_. But he's _here_. He _chose_ to be here, to _stay_ , to be in your life _now_ , and that has to count for something. I don't know why he missed the first seventeen years of your life, but he's not running away, and he's alive. He cares enough about you to fight, and, though it's none of your business what's between your dad and I, you walked in on him showing me that he cares about me and my daughter as well.”  
  
“Is there, uh, anything I can do... to help,” Connor offered, nodding towards the computers. It wasn't an apology – to either of them, but the offer combined with his now hunched posture – shoulders rolled forward, head submissively lowered – told Felicity that her student was indeed sorry.   
  
“Mia might not be smart enough to stay away from drugs,” Felicity answered sadly, “but she is smart enough to avoid CCTV cameras and to dump her phone.” Squeezing Connor's hand in thanks as she walked by him and towards her classroom door, Felicity murmured, “I'm going to try the hospitals and the police... again.” In doing so, she left father and son alone... and the distraction they provided her behind. 

 


	8. FF#36: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Eight

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #36: Blind Date**

**Chapter Eight**

After his mother died and Thea moved out, Oliver drastically changed how Queen Manor was operated. And operated was the right word, because his childhood home was more than just a house; it was a village onto itself... a village, albeit, with a population of one for many years.   
  
The first thing Oliver did was reassign most of the staff. At that point, he was already running QC and trying to repair the damage his family had helped level upon Starling City, so Oliver couldn't just outright let the staff go. Instead, he found them positions elsewhere, many of them moving on to similar duties at Queen Consolidated itself. He only kept Raisa to run the house and Pete to maintain the grounds. That's it. To accommodate these drastic reductions, Oliver had most of the house shut off, essentially turning what was one of the closest residences America had to a castle into an extremely disproportionate four bedroom bachelor pad. He kept a room for himself; a room for Thea, because, though she had moved out, Oliver's sister was always welcome in the home they had shared as children; a room for Digg's family to use during city-wide emergencies; and a guest room. Not that Oliver ever really entertained. The city was full of hotels – some of which he even owned, but Raisa had put her foot down, insisting upon at least attempting to honor the Queen family's reputation for hospitality.   
  
Now, the guest room was Connor's, and, with a new generation to fuss over, Raisa could not possibly care less about hospitality.  
  
Downstairs, Oliver kept the kitchen open, and his father's old study and the family's main living room were still habitable, but, otherwise, Queen Manor was a city of ghosts created by the dusty white sheets that adorned all of the furniture. Business dinners were held in restaurants, and QC parties at QC. Raisa worked eight hour shifts. She started in the morning. She put the coffee on, and she made sure that Oliver ate at least one meal a day. After he went to work, she maintained the few rooms he used, and, by the time Oliver returned at night, she was once more at home with her own family. Although Oliver would always appreciate the woman who had once been like a second mother to him, the separation of their personal lives allowed him to take advantage of the real reason why he made so many changes to Queen Manor.  
  
To his sister and his former staff, Oliver had confessed that the house, without a family, just felt too lonely. And, while that wasn't necessarily a lie, it also was a convenient excuse. In reality, his plan to use the old Queen Steel Factory as his base of operations had always been short-term. The club had served as an excellent cover in the beginning – back when Tommy was running Verdant and Oliver had believed his mission would be finished once every name in his father's notebook was crossed off, but, over the years, it had become more of a liability than an asset. Plus, running Queen Consolidated took up so much of Oliver's time that he needed to streamline his two very separate lives. As a result, he built a bigger, better disguised base in the basement of the Queen Mansion, taking advantage of all the old coal chutes and fruit cellars to hide in plain sight. Even now, with Connor in his life, it was the perfect setup. Even though his son was seventeen and not in need of constant supervision, Oliver felt better knowing that, no matter if he was out on a mission or not, Connor was protected. With Oliver out in the field, Digg would man the base... and be within shouting distance if Connor were in any danger.   
  
Not that Connor was aware of what was really beneath his new home... nor what was really lurking beneath the CEO exterior of his newfound father.   
  
“I made us some dinner,” Oliver stated as a means of announcing his presence. Connor's bedroom door was partially open. Forgoing a knock, Oliver moved into the threshold, leaning against the frame. When Connor didn't react – he didn't stand up to move downstairs, he didn't ask what Oliver had cooked, and he didn't immediately demand his privacy, Oliver decided to press his luck and take advantage of the temporarily truce that had existed between them since Felicity's very impressive dress-down that afternoon. “Can you really... do those things you offered today?”  
  
He watched his son dejectedly propel his leather desk chair around so that they were facing one another. “I can... not that it means anything now when it matters the most.”  
  
“I'm terrible with technology.” Sliding both of his hands into the front pockets of his dress slacks, Oliver offered, “I use the excuse that I was never able to catch up after... coming home, but the truth is that I've never had the interest.” Genuinely curious, he asked, “what about your mom?”  
  
“She's hopeless. I think the saddest day of her life was when flip phones officially went off the market.”  
  
Chuckling softly, Oliver remarked, “well, then, I guess we have at least one thing in common... well, besides you.” After a brief pause during which they both fell silent, he proposed, “I wonder where you get it from?” Connor shrugged, the gesture expressing both uncertainty and a lack of curiosity... at least towards where his cyber intelligence had originated. It wasn't a cruel reaction – which was what Oliver was used to from his only child, but, feeling greedy, he wanted more than detachment. “At least the little I remember about your mother seems accurate. I wouldn't have pegged her for a tech geek. No offense.”  
  
Though that's exactly what Connor took at Oliver's casual comment. Sitting up straight and causing his chair to snap forward, the seventeen year old demanded, “what's that supposed to mean?”  
  
Oliver refused to take the bait. “I just... I never pictured Sandra as someone who worked with a computer all day. She seemed too.... I don't know. When I met her, I thought she'd become a teacher. Or maybe a nurse.”  
  
“But not a professor, or a doctor, or a scientist.”  
  
“Connor, I've obviously offended you, but that wasn't my intention. I'm not sure what exactly I said wrong, but, whatever it is, I'm....”  
  
His son cut him off. “You basically said that my mom wasn't smart enough....”  
  
“ … that's not what I meant!”  
  
But Connor ignored Oliver's protests, talking over top of him. “ … for me to have taken after her, to amount to something as important as a _CEO_... of a company you inherited by default!”  
  
And there was the seventeen year old Oliver, if not knew, then at least recognized. Taking a deep, bracing breath, he spoke slowly but carefully, fully enunciating his words to emphasize his sincerity. “Connor, your mom wasn't in my life long enough to for me know her, let alone judge her. I realize that no kid wants to hear this, but it was one night, and, as you're unfortunately aware, I don't particularly remember it. What I do remember of your mom, however, was that she was just... nice. Sweet. When I said that I saw her as a teacher or a nurse, I wasn't insulting her. She was just one of those people who was kind to everyone... even if they didn't deserve it, because, let's face it, I wasn't worth her time, yet she ended up having a kid with me. I guess I just hoped that she spent her life showing that kind of care and warmth towards others.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
In the face of Connor's obvious surprise and relent, Oliver felt his own tension evaporate. Removing his hands from his pockets, he motioned over his shoulder. “Now, come on. Dinner's getting cold.”  
  
Although Connor didn't stand up to follow after him, he did ask, “how'd you learn how to cook?”  
  
“I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Raisa as a kid. I'd sit in there and do my homework after school while she prepared dinner. So, maybe I picked some things up way back then, but I didn't actually figure out what I was doing until... well, there's no staff on deserted islands, and, even after I came home, I couldn't eat the same way as everyone else, and it just became easier to fend for myself.”  
  
“You don't talk about it much,” his only child observed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing and his head tilting to the side. “The island. Being away for five years.”  
  
Oliver shrugged carelessly... or he hoped the gesture came off as careless. “There's not much to tell.”  
  
“Somehow I doubt that,” Connor retorted, though it wasn't said with any heat.   
  
Silently, Oliver observed as his son swiveled back around to, once more, face his computer. At any other point in their relationship, Oliver would have interpreted the move as dismissive, but, instead that evening, he just patiently waited. As crazy as it would seem to perhaps any other father and son, they had genuinely made progress with each other that day, and he was curious to see what Connor would do or say next. So, he just stood there, and he didn't press, and he watched without blinking as windows opened up and then disappeared again from Connor's monitor, his son's fingers moving faster than Oliver could track over the keyboard. Less than a minute later, Connor was standing up and approaching him, a piece of scribbled on scrap paper held out to Oliver in offering.  
  
“A man like you doesn't come home after five years of having to take care of himself and not fall back into old habits without there being a story. Seeing as how you also came back and decided not to be a part of my life, I think I have a right to hear that story... whatever it may be, so, when you're ready to really talk, you know where to find me. In the meantime,” Connor told him, finally releasing whatever information he had obtained from his computer and then jotted down on the notebook paper into Oliver's awaiting grasp. “Maybe I can't do anything to help Ms. Smoak right now, but that doesn't mean both of us should be powerless.”  
  
As Connor jogged down the hall and stairs towards the kitchen, he left his speechless with shock father behind. On the piece of paper, not only did he find Felicity's home address and cell phone number, but he was also looking at a peace offering. It wasn't the acceptance he craved from his son, but it was a start.  
  
And Oliver had every intention of taking it.

 


	9. FF#37: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Nine

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #37: Trapped!**

**Chapter Nine**

In the past, when Mia would eventually find her way home, it was never heralded by a knock on their apartment door. _'Sorry, Mom. I forgot my keys.'_ Instead, Felicity would get a call in the middle of the night to come down to the police precinct to, at best, pick her up and, at worst, bail her out. Sometimes, it was a local shelter who recognized a starving Mia from the flyers Felicity sent around, and, on more than one occasion, it had been the hospital, _'we're sorry to inform you, Mrs. Smoak' –_ it was almost Mrs., never Ms. – _'that your daughter was brought into the ER this evening having overdosed.'_ No matter who called, they never failed to apologize to her... as if they didn't realize that, after days, a week, sometimes even longer of not knowing if her little girl was alive or dead, even another arrest or a hospital bill was better than the alternative. So, it made no sense for Felicity to experience a jolt of hope when, not even twenty-four hours after discovering Mia was gone – _again_ , someone knocked on her door that evening. She knew it wasn't her daughter, yet, if she stopped believing that it _could be_ Mia, then her only child was already lost to her.  
  
As her left hand disengaged the deadbolt, her right was already reaching to twist the handle open. Even as Felicity was still pulling the door back, that bubble of anticipation burst. Words died on her abused lips, her entire posture slumped. Although she was surprised to find Oliver standing there – what, after that scene in her classroom that afternoon?, it wouldn't have mattered who had knocked. Anyone but Mia was a disappointment. Her shock then bled into confusion. “Oliver, how did you...?” Before he could respond, she was already answering her own question. “Connor.”  
  
“I hope it's al....” That's as far as Oliver could get before Felicity gave up all pretenses of strength and confidence. His arms weren't open, but he reacted quickly, and, by the time she crossed the threshold of her apartment and joined him out in the hallway, she was falling into his embrace. Felicity wouldn't allow herself to cry, but she did accept his comfort. It was unexpected but certainly not unwelcome. And, as Oliver, who must have sensed her desperation, said nothing but tightened his hold around her just that much more, Felicity burrowed her face into his granite chest. His overwhelming strength was reassuring and comforting, and, in that moment, in those precious few seconds during which Felicity allowed herself a reprieve, she realized that Oliver Queen gave the best hugs.   
  
But the reprieve couldn't last. She wouldn't allow it. Stepping back away from him, Felicity avoided Oliver's gaze as she apologized. “Sorry about that.” Without waiting for him to respond, she turned to indicate that he should enter. “Please, come in.”  
  
As soon as the door was closed and locked behind them – the twisting of the deadbolt a habit and not a conscious action, Oliver was talking. “I should have called. I shouldn't have just shown up without....”  
  
“I'm glad you're here,” Felicity interrupted him. Her forthright confession made Oliver snap to attention. His strikingly blue eyes captured hers and refused to let go... even when Felicity felt her palms start to perspire and her cheeks heat with a potent combination of anticipation and anxiety. “Completely baffled as to why you're _still_ not running in the opposite direction. But glad.”  
  
“Why would I...?”  
  
“Loud voice,” Felicity cut off him with a clarification before Oliver could talk himself out of staying. Because surely that was going to happen at any minute. “Not yours. Mine. Earlier. It can be pretty scary.”  
  
A smirk played on his full mouth. (Really, it was ridiculous for a man to have such pretty lips. Ridiculous, and amazing, and Felicity had no business thinking about, let alone looking at, Oliver's lips.) “Did you forget who my mother was?”  
  
“Right,” Felicity agreed with him, shaking her head as if to clear away the cobwebs. “Moira Queen. Terrorist.” Oliver seemed taken aback by her blunt description, so Felicity tried to soften the blow. “I mean, accomplice to a terrorist?” Rushing, she added, “but she totally tried to take it back in the end, though there's really no take backs when it comes to mass murder.” Rethinking that as well, Felicity rationalized, “that she was totally coerced into committing. So, she was more like an apologetic rat accomplice to a terrorist.” Remember that prediction about Oliver leaving and not looking back...? Cringing, she tacked on one last fragmented thought. “With a heart of gold?” There was no saving... any of that, so Felicity decided to just change the topic. Sighing in self-recrimination, and embarrassment, and regret, Felicity cluelessly queried, “why are you here, Oliver?”  
  
He shrugged his shoulders, his hands slipping into the front pockets of his dress slacks. It was then that Felicity realized that Oliver still had on the same suit he had been wearing that afternoon. “I want to help.”  
  
“But _why_?” Deciding that her question sounded rude, and she certainly was in no position to turn down any help, Felicity clarified, “why do you want to help? Why are you even still here, Oliver? I mean, we've known each other for just a single day, yet you had your son commit about a dozen felonies to get his hands on my address for you.”  
  
“In defense of my barely there parenting skills, I just assumed that your information was available to anyone online.”  
  
“Yeah. No. I'll have to talk to Connor about that once Mia's... home safe.”  
  
Nodding acceptance of her offer and of its timetable, Oliver returned them back to the issue at hand. “Honestly, Felicity, I don't really know why. All I know is that, when you look at me, I don't see expectations – good or bad, and I don't see regret. Everyone else in my life, for one reason or another, looks at me with disappointment. But not you.” Regrouping, Oliver paused, his brow furrowing with concentration and in thought. He licked his lips before resuming his explanation. “Earlier, Connor said something that stuck with me. He said that you're the only person in his life who sees him as his own person... and I get that. I know it's horrible timing. The last thing you need in your life right now is the kind of complications I bring to the table. Or, well, to your doorstep.” For some reason, Felicity suspected Oliver was talking about more than just Mia's addiction, Oliver's celebrity profile, and Oliver's rocky relationship with his son, but, for the life of her, she had no idea what else he could be referencing.   
  
“Even this afternoon before I walked into your classroom, I planned on staying detached. I can't, though. More than that, Felicity,” Oliver confessed to her, shrugging his shoulders in surrender, “I don't want to. For the first time in too long, you make me want to be selfish.” There was a lump in her throat, and tears in her eyes, and Felicity marveled at the fact that, even in times of great distress, the human heart was capable of feeling such immense joy. When Oliver kept talking, she found herself sinking her top teeth into her bottom lip – this time, not as a deterrent to emotional pain but simply to keep herself quiet. “But it's more than just about you, and me, and even the possibility of an... us; it's about your daughter as well.”  
  
Felicity felt her brows furrow with confusion. “How do you mean?” Offering more, she said, “you've never even met Mia.”  
  
“Before....” Oliver paused, swallowed roughly, and regrouped. “Years ago, I might not have gone to rehab, and maybe I wasn't an addict, but I was on a course that made it only a matter of time. If it wasn't for... for the... intervention....”  
  
“You mean when you died.” She corrected herself. “I mean, when you drowned.” She shook her head. Between Mia, and her worry, and her exhaustion, and Oliver's... everything, she was _well_ beyond the point of her usual social ineptness. “But not. Because you came back. Not to life... because you're not a zombie. But back _back_. To Starling, so, ten years later, I could make a _complete_ fool of myself in this moment.”  
  
The only thing that prevented Felicity from running away from her own apartment, from herself, was the small yet beautiful and genuine smile that tilted up the corners of Oliver's mouth. “With your permission, I'd like to bring in... an associate of mine to help with the search for your daughter.”  
  
The abrupt topic change caused Felicity to start. It was the impetus she needed to realize that they were still standing by her front door, that she hadn't offered to take Oliver's coat. Or to get him a drink. Hell, she never even offered Oliver a chance to sit down. As for the apartment itself, every available flat surface was covered with papers – printouts with contact information for every hospital, shelter, and police department between Starling and Las Vegas. Felicity had expanded her search outside of their hometown after going all day without word from any of the local authorities. “I... what?”  
  
“His name is John Diggle, and he's QC's chief of security. More than that, though, he's my friend. I trust him with my life, with Connor's life. There's no one better at what he does, and he's discrete.”  
  
“Oliver, I don't care if you put out a press release; I just want my daughter back. I want her back, and I want her safe, and, if John Diggle can do that for me, then, please, ask him to help.” Laughing without humor and shrugging her shoulders, Felicity commented, “maybe I should feel bad for taking advantage of your resources, but I don't. I can't.”  
  
“It's not taking advantage when I offered, Felicity,” he reassured her. Oliver approached her then. When he pulled her arms away from her torso, Felicity realized that they had been so tightly crossed and wrapped around her abdomen that her hands had started to go numb. Before he continued to speak, Oliver gently yet with the warmth of his conviction gripped her forearms, held them. “In order for Digg to do this, I'm going to need you to tell me more about your daughter, about Mia, about her addiction.”  
  
“Anything.”  
  
“What does she use? Where does she get her money? Who does she get high with, where?”  
  
“Heroin,” Felicity answered sadly, sighing. “Frankly, I don't understand it. Not that drugs have _ever_ appealed to me, but I can see the appeal of a rush. I mean, it hasn't been _that_ long since I've had an orga....” While she mentally screamed a countdown in her mind, Felicity clamped down on her tongue, barely managing to stop her thought. Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to stop it before getting her (regrettable) point across. Breathing through her nose and grimacing, she explained her initial objection. “Needles. I hate them. Well, actually, I hate all pointy things.” She started to demonstrate stabbing with her index fingers before clenching her hands into fists.   
  
Closing her eyes in mortification, Felicity continued to answer his questions. “We don't... have a lot of money. Any extra goes towards paying off fines, hospital bills, and rehab costs. Mia doesn't have an allowance. She doesn't have access to credit cards. As a mother _and_ as a woman, I really don't like to think about how she pays for drugs, but the thought of not getting my daughter back is even worse than contemplating the idea of her selling or using her body to pay for a high.” Swallowing through the lump in her throat, Felicity pressed on. “As for friends, Mia doesn't have any at this point – none, at least, that I'm aware of, and, when she takes off like this, she lives like a nomad. She wanders without a pattern, her only purpose getting high.”  
  
For several seconds, Oliver was silent as he absorbed her words. Then, when he finally spoke, his voice was whisper-soft, sympathetic and protective. “Is she sick?”  
  
“When Mia's living at home, I make sure that she's routinely tested. Miraculously, the last time she was checked, she was still clean.”  
  
“I'm going to have Digg take every precaution, nonetheless.”  
  
“Please do,” Felicity whispered sincerely. She allowed her eyelashes to flutter open, but there was nothing left to say, so Felicity simply offered Oliver the softest, most grateful smile she could under the circumstances. “If you find her, just... don't tell her that you know me.” At Oliver's perplexed expression, Felicity prompted, “do you remember how I told you that Mia's father committed suicide in prison?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, she doesn't know about that.”  
  
“I don't understand what that has to do with...?”  
  
Comprehending what he was asking, Felicity explained, “when Mia was old enough to start asking about her daddy, all I could think about was how mine abandoned me. Every little girl should have the chance to idolize her father. So, that's what I did for Mia. I whitewashed Cooper's actions, and I gave my daughter a heroic dad. I told her the truth about the super-virus I created, but I didn't tell her about how Cooper lost control, how he used it without my permission. Instead, I told her that her daddy went to prison to protect us, because he loved us so much, and, instead of telling her that he was too much of a coward to face the consequences of his actions, I said he was brave until the very end, that he died keeping us safe. I did it to give Mia a father, but, in giving her Cooper, I lost her, because my daughter doesn't just resent me; she hates me so much that she actively tries to hurt me. So, if you find her, don't even say my name, because it'll just make her run again, make her run further, and faster, and forever.”  
  
Oliver squeezed her forearms once before dragging the pads of his fingers down until he could wrap their hands together. “I should go. It's late, and I still need to meet with Digg.”  
  
“Right,” she agreed with him. And she did – agree, that was. Because she wanted his help, and she needed to get back to her phone calls, but Felicity also really didn't want to be alone. More than that, she didn't want to be without Oliver... which was ridiculous, because, realistically speaking, she barely knew him. But yet she did. In all the ways that mattered, Felicity did know him, and Oliver knew her. “And I'm sure you want to get home as well... to Connor.”  
  
“Yeah.” With one last touch, Oliver let go of her hands only to shock Felicity when he leaned against her to place a murmur of a kiss upon her forehead. “We'll find her, Felicity. I promise.” He stepped back, away from her. And then he said, as if he were trying to convince them both, “okay, I'm going to go.”  
  
Before she could thank him, before she could offer him a 'good night,' before Felicity could even blink, Oliver did just that; he left. 

 


	10. FF#38: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Ten

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #38: Strangers in the Night**

**Chapter Ten**

Oliver didn't even give his sister a chance to _start_ lifting her hand to knock – or maybe she'd just let herself in... considering that this _was_ Thea, and even though it had been years since she had lived in the Queen Mansion with him, when it was convenient for her to do so, she still considered it her home as well – before he was pulling open the door and trying to both get her inside while, at the same time, rushing out himself.   
  
He should have known better.  
  
He was running late. Well, actually Thea was running late and throwing off Oliver's entire timetable for the evening, but his sister wouldn't see it that way, because she still lived on her own schedule. At one point in his life, Oliver had been the same way, but, when five years of your life are stolen from you, and you are forced to bend to the will of others or die, it's impossible to slip back into that same narcissistic headspace. Not that Thea was necessarily a narcissist either. She just... expected things to be a certain way, because that's how they had always been, and people adjusting their lives to fit around her was a part of that. Really, she didn't even notice it happening.  
  
However, all of Oliver's haste evaporated when he spotted Thea's car parked directly in front of the house. “Speedy?”  
  
“Geez, Ollie, schizo much? First, you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now you won't even let me into the house.”  
  
“I just...,” he stumbled over his words, perplexed. Usually, Oliver adjusted much better – not to mention quicker, but he had been so focused on his plan for the evening that one deviation was throwing him. Or maybe it was the ridiculousness of Thea's parking job. Her ruby red Tesla was positioned directly under the porte-cochere, not a raindrop in sight. “Why didn't you take your car down to the garage?”  
  
His sister groaned dramatically. “That's _such_ a long walk, Ollie.” But then she became sassy (her usual mode) and petulant. “I think the better question is why don't you have a valet?”  
  
“Thea, I haven't had a valet in years.”  
  
“I know,” she said bitterly, dramatically. “And it makes even less sense now.” Hands on hips, she smirked at him, “you're not getting any younger, big brother.”  
  
Somehow, Oliver found that he always regressed into shades of his younger self when arguing, even playfully, with Thea. It didn't matter how many years passed them by... or how serious the situation. It had now been three days since Mia Smoak disappeared – two since he promised Felicity that he would find her daughter, and, still, there was no sign of the sixteen year old. While he and Digg had been patrolling in shifts – one of them on the streets looking for Mia, the other at the house, manning the base with an oblivious Connor asleep upstairs, too much time had gone by without a lead. Oliver was becoming frustrated, and Felicity was well passed desperate. So, they had to come up with a new attack plan, hence Thea's presence that evening. However, despite the immediacy of the situation, Oliver still found himself pushing back, “the older I get, the older you get, too, Speedy.”  
  
“Yeah, but I'll always be younger than you. And prettier. Besides,” Thea became slightly more serious, shrugging and rolling her eyes. “What does it matter where I park? It's not like you ever have visitors, and I'm only going to be here for a little while.”  
  
“Actually, I need you to spend the night,” Oliver contradicted her before Thea could respond. Her mouth fell open in confusion just as the rest of her delicate features pinched in irritation. Using the opportunity that presented itself, Oliver snatched her key fob from her loose, lax grip. “I'll just move your car and... be right back.”  
  
He started to jog out the door, hoping his reprieve from his sister's undying curiosity would last long enough for Oliver to escape and think up a solid excuse for his all-night absence _before_ her questions would start up again, but he'd never been that lucky. “Wait, what do you mean 'spend the night?' Why? Where will you be? And why didn't you tell me this over the phone when you called me earlier? I thought Connor just needed my help picking out something to wear or choosing what type of flowers to buy?” After only a brief pause to breathe, Thea continued, “this isn't about homecoming at all, is it, Ollie?”  
  
Believing his best course of action was just to act nonchalant, Oliver ignored his sister's questions. All of them. Instead, he simply offered her a carefree wave as he slid into the cramped driver's seat of he car. “Five minutes, Thea,” he promised her. “I'll see you in a few.”  
  
Oliver was already pulling away before she could object. As he drove the car towards the impressive, both in the size and grandeur of the building itself and the collection it held, Queen garage – that was one aspect of his former life he refused to downsize, Oliver struggled. He was uncomfortable, but he had learned long ago to not mess with the settings of his petite sister's car seat. Plus, he was trying to call Digg one-handed, never quite able to figure out all of his phones' settings before he inevitably broke them. It would have been so much simpler if he could have just used Speedy's hands-free system, but Oliver expressly kept his sister separate from the portions of his life in which Digg existed, and even a simple, seemingly innocuous phone call would risk his sister's inner-busybody and bring her snooping into parts of his world never meant to touch her.   
  
By the time Oliver made it to the garage, he had gone off the driveway twice, nearly clipped a stone retaining wall, and had resigned himself to not placing his phone call until after the Tesla was safely parked. His knees loudly protested their brief confinement once he was able to stand from the car, the joints' creaking a stark reminder of Thea's not so subtle and yet entirely accurate dig at his age. He wasn't getting any younger, and the past few nights, out on the streets looking for Felicity's daughter, had proven that as well. It was more than just his age, though. It was him; it was who he was now.   
  
Finally able to dial, Oliver located John Diggle's name and then waited for the other man to pick up. Years ago, Ollie Queen wouldn't have had a problem finding the type of trouble Mia Smoak was unfortunately tangled up in. While he hadn't specifically had _a_ dealer, he knew people who knew people who did. Now? Now, when Oliver came across teenagers and twenty-somethings who had such connections, his first instinct was to scare them straight or, if they were too far gone, send them to jail. And it didn't matter which suit he wore out on the streets, which mask, nobody would talk to him. Oliver had been half tempted to approach his sister, to ask Thea to show around Mia's picture in her club, and see if she could get any leads, but the idea of Thea knowing people who knew dealers smacked up against his need to protect her... even if from his own naivety, and Oliver had dismissed the thought. Plus, asking her to help with Mia would mean telling her about Felicity, and he wasn't ready for that either.   
  
Verdant wasn't the only club in Starling City, however.  
  
If Thea found out he was planning on spending his night inside of the competition, there would be hell to pay, but Oliver could handle his sister's wrath much better than he could her inquisitiveness about and snooping into his personal life. They still hadn't recovered from the bomb that he had a son; Oliver planned on giving her a little while longer before he dropped Felicity on her as well.  
  
“Oliver, why are you calling me instead of living this hell with me? This was your plan, you know.”  
  
He could barely hear Digg over the resounding base and impatient calls for drinks coming from the background. “I'm running a little late.”  
  
Inside a busy, loud club or not, Oliver couldn't miss the saltiness in Digg's tone. “You don't say.”  
  
“Look, I'm sorry. You know my sister; you know that she operates on her own schedule. She just got here, and she's not very happy with me.”  
  
“Maybe that's because you're having her watch your seventeen year old son like he's seven.” Sighing in resignation, Digg relented somewhat. “Look, man, I get it. I'm a dad, too, you know, and I realize that you're still adjusting, still getting used to what it means to be responsible for someone else. But Connor's a good kid. He doesn't need a babysitter, and, if he finds out you got him one, he's going to think that you don't trust him. That's the last thing the two of you need.”  
  
“It has nothing to do with trust, Digg, and Connor's smart enough to realize that.”  
  
“Your kid is book smart, I'll give you that,” the other man agreed. “But, when it comes to common sense, he's dumb as dirt. I haven't spent much time with him, but I swear, that boy lives in his own world.”  
  
A cyber world. Ever since Felicity revealed how Connor had so quickly gotten her personal information online, Oliver had been paying closer attention to his son... well, when he managed to stop long enough to spend a few moments at home and when Connor didn't protest too vocally to his presence, and Oliver was starting to put some of the pieces together which made up the seventeen year old. Diggle wasn't kidding when he said that Connor was smart. Oliver would even go so far as to guess his only child, somehow, was a genius – with or without a keyboard in his hands, but with? Well, with a keyboard, he was more than just smart; Oliver believed he might just be dangerous.  
  
That wasn't his immediate concern, though, and finding Mia was. “I can't worry about that now, Digg,” he returned to the conversation. “After everything I've seen this week....” Maybe he'd failed in finding Mia, but she wasn't the only teenage addict on the streets, and the thought of Connor like that only solidified Oliver's need to reunite Felicity with her daughter. “Well, let's just say that I'll suffer my kid's wrath if it means he's safe.”  
  
“It's your funeral, man.”  
  
With the house in sight and knowing that he needed to end their call before going back inside, Oliver refocused them. “Don't try to make a buy until I get there. This is my mission, Digg, not yours. While I appreciate your help, I won't risk you getting into trouble over this. Besides, between the two of us, I'm the one more likely to try and score.”  
  
“Yeah, cocaine maybe,” the former soldier quipped. “Or speed, or X, or whatever designer drug out on the market is popular right now. But heroin? Heroin's a street drug. No one's going to believe that your pampered, white ass wants to score some smack. Trust me, Oliver. Let the black man handle this.”  
  
“That's exactly why you shouldn't be anywhere near this,” Oliver argued, his voice rising. “Whether it's right or not, if you get caught with dope, they'll throw the book at you. But, if Oliver Queen gets caught buying some heroin....”  
  
“Heroin, Ollie? Are you freaking kidding me right now?”  
  
Without a single word in explanation or a goodbye, Oliver hung up on Diggle. He'd been so distracted by their conversation that he had failed to spot Thea lying in wait for him outside. Sure, it was dark out, and, yes, she had conveniently selected a spot deep in the shadows and far away from any of the mansion's lights or the glow of the moon, but he was supposed to be better than that. Nickname or no nickname, Speedy never should have been able to get the drop on him. “What are you doing out here, Thea?”  
  
“Oh, no,” his sister yelled, advancing in Oliver's direction. Her left index finger stabbed against his solar plexus, and her eyes sparked with green fire. “You do not get to turn this around on me, Oliver Queen! I thought you were passed all of this: the partying, the self-destruction.”  
  
He sighed in exhaustion, in resignation. So much for keeping Thea out of this. “It's not what you think, Speedy.”  
  
“Look, I know that things have been... tense lately – what, with finding out about Connor and all, but that's not an excuse to fall back on bad habits.”  
  
Taking his sister by the shoulders, Oliver shook her slightly to get her attention. “Thea.” Her gaze met his, and he watched as she seemed to deflate before his eyes. “I'm not using heroin, I'm not partying, I'm not self-destructing.”  
  
“But I heard you say....”  
  
It hurt – the fact that his little sister could hear so little and jump to so many conclusions, that she believed him still capable of throwing his life away with both hands. Yes, he kept distance between them, but it was for her own good, and, until this evening, Oliver had believed that he had shown her enough for Thea to realize just how much he had changed... even if she couldn't know about his promise to their father and how, even with his mission against the list complete, Oliver, along with John Diggle, continued to try and protect and keep safe the people of Starling City. But, apparently, he had been wrong. Never before, even after returning from the island, had he ever felt so much of a disconnect between them. And, while Oliver had no one to blame but himself, he did hold Thea somewhat responsible, because it seemed like, no matter what he did or didn't do, she refused to see that he wasn't still Ollie Queen – that he had grown, and matured, and become so much more than the screw-up she remembered and loved from childhood. In fact, the only changes she could see were those she didn't like – his reluctance to open up, how he was aloof, and withdrawn, and even reclusive at times.  
  
“I have... this friend,” Oliver started. He realized he was struggling to explain, but it still frustrated him when Thea wouldn't give him a chance to do so either.  
  
“You mean, this is about a woman.”  
  
“No.” At his sister's raised in disbelief eyebrows, Oliver amended, “I mean, yes, there is a woman, but it's not about her; it's about her daughter.”  
  
Thea pulled away from him, tossing her arms up in the air. She'd gone from anger to disappointment within a matter of seconds. “You've gotta be kidding me! At least tell me she's legal.”  
  
He... he couldn't look at her, not like this, and maintain control. So, closing his eyes and clenching his hands into fists to the point of pain, Oliver gritted out through his clamped teeth, “don't go there, Speedy. It's not like that.”  
  
“Then what is it like?!”  
  
“If you'd stop jumping to conclusions and just _listen_ for once in your life, I'd tell you.” Thea stayed quiet, and Oliver tried to settle down his breathing... which he realized was so elevated his chest hurt. “I... I met someone. It's still really new, but... it's different. _She's_ different. But her daughter? She's in trouble. Drugs. Heroin. And she's missing.”  
  
“And you're trying to help,” Thea realized. But the disappointment still wasn't gone from her voice. This baffled Oliver enough that his lids flickered open, and he stared, amazed, as his little sister chastised him. “That's what the police are for, Ollie. And rehab. Maybe a family counselor. You have no business getting involved, especially not now – what, with Connor in your life and all.”  
  
“I think Connor gives me even more reason to try and find this girl, Thea.”  
  
“What if Sandra finds out?”  
  
“Finds out what,” he questioned cluelessly.  
  
Thea spoke to him like he was an idiot. “You're dating a woman whose daughter is an addict, Ollie. No mother would trust someone with that bad of judgement with their son.”  
  
Incredulous, he asked, “you're... blaming Felicity for Mia's illness?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“That's not... that's like saying mom and dad were to blame for all my problems growing up, for yours.”  
  
“Weren't they... at least in part,” his sister challenged.  
  
“No,” Oliver argued, stepping back from her and holding up his hands to warn her from getting any closer. “No, we're not doing this. _You're_ not doing this. Felicity is a good mother, Thea. You don't know her, and you don't get to judge her.”  
  
“I can, and I will,” she snapped back, ignoring his warning and stalking towards him. “For seventeen years, you had nothing to do with your son. He's been in our life now for three months, and I won't allow you to throw that all away for some cheap – what kind of name is Felicity, anyway? It sounds like a stripper's name – piece of....”  
  
He couldn't allow her to finish that thought. “I didn't even know about him,” Oliver exploded.   
  
If he thought the sheer volume of his voice or the animosity behind it would be enough to thwart his sister, he obviously wasn't the only one who failed to see their real sibling. “What do you mean? Of course you knew about him, Ollie. You told me yourself about Sandra coming to tell you she was pregnant when I questioned Connor's paternity.”  
  
“Yes. And I also told you that I thought she lost the baby, that that's what she told me happened.”  
  
“And you never checked into her story?”  
  
“Why would I,” he asked rhetorically. “Back then, I thought I'd dodged a bullet, and, years later, after... everything that happened, I thought _she_ dodged a bullet.” Bitterly, he snapped, “turns out, she only got two million dollars.”  
  
“I don't understand,” Thea struggled to connect the pieces of what Oliver was telling her.  
  
Sighing because... how had their conversation gotten to this point?, Oliver relaxed. His voice dropped, and his shoulders fell in defeat, in disillusionment. “After Sandra told me she was pregnant, I was scared. Mom sensed something was wrong, and, when she confronted me, I confided in her. I only found this out when Sandra came to me a few months ago, but she told me she lost the baby, because Mom paid her two million dollars to do so.”  
  
“That only proves my point for me, Ollie: we are the result of our parents' parenting... just like this Mia girl and her problems are the result of Felicity's.”  
  
“You're wrong,” a third voice entered the fray. Gravel crunched underneath Connor's feet as he moved closer to where Oliver and Thea were standing. “I don't know Mia, and I don't know anything about addiction, but I do know Ms. Sm... Felicity. She's a good person, Aunt Thea. The best.”  
  
“Great. When it comes to women,” Speedy snarked underneath her breath. “ _Of course_ , they're like father, like son.”  
  
But Oliver ignored her, turning towards his kid instead. “How much did you hear?”  
  
“Enough. Enough to... understand a few things better now _and_ to know that Mr. Diggle is going to be beyond pissed when you finally show up... wherever you're meeting up to look for Mia.”  
  
“Shit,” Oliver swore, already turning towards the house and heading inside to grab his own keys. While the plan was to go in as himself in plain clothes, his gear was already stashed in the car he was taking that night... just in case. “You're right.”  
  
Connor just chuckled in amusement. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for Thea. She doggedly followed after him, talking the entire time. “Where do you think you're going, Ollie? We're not finished here! You need to listen to me. This is a ridiculously bad idea – you, riding in on your white Porsche to save the stripper's day!”  
  
“Felicity's not a stripper,” Connor corrected his aunt. At this point, Oliver was on his way back out of the house and taking off at a fast clip once more towards the garage. “She's my comp-sci teacher.”  
  
“ _Of course_ she is,” Thea mocked. Oliver didn't need to be looking at his sister to see her epic eye roll. Then she changed tactics. “Ollie, what the hell am I supposed to do here all night? You don't even own a TV!”  
  
He didn't. If he wasn't working or _working_ , then he was training or sleeping. When he needed to relax, kick back and have some fun, Oliver went for a drive. “I don't know,” he yelled back over his shoulder. Then, figuring he might as well get one dig in, especially since he wasn't going to be the one to have to deal with the fallout (poor Connor), Oliver suggested, “why don't you try out my gym.”  
  
“Oliver Queen,” Thea screamed towards his rapidly retreating figure. “Did you just call me fat?!”  
  
He could still hear her faintly shrieking... and Connor laughing... as he drove down the long, winding driveway.

 


	11. FF#39: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Eleven

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #39: Crashed**

**Chapter Eleven**

When someone knocked on her door now, Felicity didn't automatically, despite common sense, hope that it was Mia, apparently having forgotten her keys when she ran off almost a week ago. And, when she opened the door to find Oliver standing on her doorstep, she no longer felt a wave of disappointment flood her chest. Just because she still wanted her daughter to come home, it didn't mean that she wasn't pleased to see her new friend.  
  
Or maybe they were officially dating now? Felicity really wasn't sure.  
  
It didn't matter that, six days into Mia's latest disappearance, the last thing Felicity should have been thinking about was her relationship status. But it was hard to shut down her thoughts, her feelings. If she closed her heart off, then she'd be numb to everything – not just Oliver but also Mia, too. To feel her sorrow and her grief over her daughter running away, Felicity also had to allow herself to be open towards feeling other emotions as well, and those other emotions were dominated by Oliver's sudden yet somehow not awkward presence in her life.   
  
He gave her hope – hope that she desperately needed – and not just about Mia either. Oh, he was still out searching for her daughter. He claimed that it was his associate, Mr. Diggle, who was leading their investigation, but she could see the exhaustion underlying his movements, his smiles of reassurance; she could see the weariness pulling on his body. When Oliver updated her on the search's progress... or, more precisely, lack thereof, sometimes, his pronouns would slip. The 'he' would become a 'we', and, the longer Mia was missing... and the more exhausted they all became, the more often Oliver would falter in his ruse, regretfully telling her, _'I don't know what else to do, Felicity.'_   
  
Quite frankly, she didn't either. At this point, she had all but accepted the fact that their success rested solely upon Mia's tiny shoulders. If they were going to find her daughter, it was because Mia wanted to be found, because she came home on her own. That didn't mean that Felicity stopped looking, that she stopped making calls, that she gave up. She would _never_ give up on her daughter, and the effort would never be in futility, because she had to try – for Mia's sake... and for her own.   
  
Opening her door, Felicity paused momentarily to just... look at Oliver. As he smiled down upon her – the gesture warm with affection yet cloudy with guilt (she knew he felt like he was failing her because he had yet to find her daughter), she found herself returning the silent greeting, though her guilt came from knowing she had made his life just that much more complicated. When too much time stretched by and she started to feel embarrassed, Felicity bit her still bruised bottom lip, flushed with shyness, and glanced away. “Hi,” she whispered, backing away and moving to the side so that he could properly enter her apartment.  
  
Only... Oliver wouldn't allow her to hide from him – not even for a moment. With the door still wide open, he stopped before her. Although she had recognized that very first night just how much bigger he was than her, it was in that moment – Felicity leaning back against her front door, her right hand twisted behind her to still hold the doorknob, while her left hand held tightly to her silent, seemingly always silent, cell phone – that the disparity between their sizes really sunk in for her. Oliver wasn't massive. He was tall but not by basketball standards; he was certainly fit, but she had met Mr. Diggle once this past week to provide him with pictures of Mia, so Felicity knew Oliver wasn't alone in his muscularity. But he had this commanding presence about him, and, combined with the attraction she felt towards him, Oliver could swallow a room, make everything and everyone else disappear.  
  
It made Felicity want to crawl inside of him and just... stay there. Forever.   
  
His grin turned into a smirk... as if he could _sense_ what she was thinking. At least, Felicity hoped he was sensing and not actually hearing, but she was pretty sure – call it a solid 86% conviction rate – that she hadn't said any of _that_ out loud. Thanks to motherhood, that was the one thing that had improved when it came to her mouth. Mia had been too smart for Felicity's own good from a very early age, and mimicking had been one of her favorite amusements. While Felicity was still prone to babbling (and, apparently, her slang was grossly outdated), raising Mia had trained her to keep much of what she thought trapped inside of her own mind... despite what their first meeting might lead Oliver to believe.   
  
“Hello, Felicity,” Oliver returned. It wasn't until he kept talking that Felicity both realized why he had been smirking and that her mommy filter had not actually failed her. Even as his words of explanation slipped past his lips, she felt her phone being dragged away from her fingers. “I'll just take this....”  
  
Her reaction was automatic. “But I need it.”  
  
“What you need is a break,” Oliver corrected her. If his hand didn't wander back to and then linger on her own, she would have felt chastised. Instead, she recognized his need to take care of her – that he was worried about her, that he wanted her, but this wasn't the right time, and he was going to show her by making sure that she was alright. For the first time in far too long, Oliver made her heart ache in the good way. “You need to eat something, get some rest.”  
  
“I can't rest, because resting means stopping.” As she argued with him, Oliver pried her fist off of the handle, closing and locking the door behind him. As she argued with him, Oliver somehow ushered her further into her own home, into her living room, and down so that she was sitting on the couch. “And stopping means....”  
  
“It's not giving up, Felicity.” When she went to protest, he stopped her by saying, “no one's giving up, but you're drained.”  
  
“So are you,” she pointed out.  
  
“I am tired,” he acknowledged her point, but then Oliver continued to make his own. “But I've been eating three square meals a day. And I'm not out there alone. I have help.” Felicity had a sneaking suspicion that, even when Oliver wasn't _out there_ , as he said, he was still helping with the search. “And, when I go to work in the morning after a sleepless night, I'm not responsible for a bunch of teenagers. If I want to sit alone in my office all day, I can; if I need to take a nap during my lunch break, I do.” Until that point, Oliver had been standing before her – still holding her left hand in his while looking down at her, his face tight with worry. But then he lowered himself to sit on the couch beside her, angling his body so that he was facing her. “Frankly, I don't know how you're still standing.”  
  
Without actually meaning to, Felicity's gaze skipped around the bright and cluttered, messy room, landing upon the dozens – and, no, she wasn't exaggerating – of empty and abandoned coffee cups. In that moment, she realized that it was ridiculous for one person to own so many mugs, especially when it wasn't like she was hosting book club Tuesdays or making them as a hobby. It was Oliver's resigned, “right. Well, that explains it then,” that returned Felicity's fuzzy concentration and attention back to the man beside her.   
  
Standing and already moving towards her kitchen, he announced, “food first, then.”  
  
Even the thought of eating, though, made Felicity nauseous. While she recognized what that meant – her body had gone too long without sustenance, it didn't change the fact that she just didn't have the energy to deal with being sick. “Oliver,” she called after him. He paused in the doorway, turned, his hands braced against the trim on either side. “I... can't. I just... please.”  
  
Felicity could see that he wanted to fight her, but he didn't. Instead, he sighed and nodded his acceptance. However, Oliver didn't back down entirely. “A compromise, then?”  
  
He was adorable... in a frustrating, almost heavy-handed sort of way, and Felicity found that she really wanted to kiss him. Well, actually, what she really wanted was to go to bed with him. And, yes, she meant bed. As in to sleep, preferably with Mia safe and sound down the hall in her own room. Then, after a good eight _hundred_ hours of rest, would come the kissing. Lots of kissing. And not just on the mouth. And maybe not just kissing.   
  
It was Oliver's worried, “Felicity?,” which pulled her from her... thoughts.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
She was still shaking her head to clear her mind enough to focus when Oliver said, “what about something other than coffee to drink instead?”  
  
“Yeah. Sure.” Blinking a few times, because, yeah, she really needed to clear the images from her mind _and_ her eyes as well, Felicity accepted his offer. “Something to drink. I could do that.”  
  
Then, with a small, appreciative smile and a nod, Oliver was gone. As she listened to him move around her basically unused kitchen – she stored things in it... and not just food and dishes, so she'd have to go in their occasionally to make her morning bagel or find a computer part when operating on a sick baby, but she and cooking were an arson charge waiting to happen, Felicity found herself restless. Which was absurd. Because she knew that restlessness stemmed from missing Oliver, from wanting to be with him while he reenacted _Old Mother Hubbard_ , and she knew he wouldn't be gone long, because his options were pretty much limited to water and milk since coffee was unfortunately off the menu. Despite this, though, despite knowing that her desires weren't rational, Felicity found herself standing up and following Oliver.   
  
As she shuffled her way into the kitchen, she found him stirring a small pan on her stove, and she had to admit, even if only to herself, that the image did nothing to keep her earlier _thoughts_ at bay. “Even if it's only broth, Oliver, and I drink it, it's still considered food.”  
  
He chuckled and motioned her over to join him at the stove. He was a brave man. As Felicity peered around his shoulder, he revealed, “it's hot chocolate.”  
  
It didn't look like chocolate to her, and, if there was one thing Felicity knew... well, besides coffee and computers, it was chocolate. “It's white.”  
  
“This is just the milk,” Oliver explained... though that didn't explain anything, because even Felicity could make hot chocolate, and all it took was a mug of water in the microwave for 60 seconds and a packet of hot chocolate mix. Just as she was about to ask for further clarification, Felicity gasped in surprise. One minute Oliver was stirring, and the next he was wrapping his very large, very calloused (huh, she wouldn't have thought callouses would feel so... nice) hands around her waist (and, wait, when did her t-shirt ride up enough so that she could feel those lovely callouses?) and lifting her to sit on her kitchen counter... as if she weighed no more than a MacBook Air.   
  
She was still going to voice her questions until Oliver's hands fell from her waist... only to land upon her knees. Well, one of his hands – his left – kept brushing against the bare skin of one of her knees... and sometimes her lower thigh, left bare by her shorts, as well, while the other returned to his wooden spoon. Even though his actions made Felicity forcefully clamp her mouth shut – she didn't want him to stop, and she didn't want to say the wrong thing, and she was also really at a loss for words at that point, Oliver seemed to sense her confusion without it being voiced, and he began to slowly talk to her. (The fact that he had to dump all the extra screws Felicity kept in the pot out onto the counter and then wipe the pan out before using it _might have_ given her kitchen cluelessness away. Maybe.)  
  
“Growing up, I wasn't much for hot chocolate. I preferred cider. But Thea loved it. Even though I didn't drink it myself, I spent enough winter afternoons in the kitchen with Raisa and my sister to never forget how to make hot chocolate. But only from scratch. I didn't even realize you could buy mix in packets until... well, until I started dating.” An uncomfortable cough later, and Oliver continued. “It's simple, really. Just milk, and sugar, and cocoa, and a tiny pinch of salt. Sometimes, Thea would have Raisa add marshmallows.” Oliver looked away from the pan, asked her, “do you like marshmallows?”  
  
“I like the fluff. It's a movie night staple for Mia and I... or, at least, it used to be when she'd actually stay in the same room with me long enough to watch a movie.” Not wanting to ruin the moment they were sharing, Felicity quickly pushed the thought of her daughter's animosity aside. “And I like s'mores, Lucky Charms, Rice Crispy Treats. But you're not going to find any marshmallows in my cupboards, Oliver. In fact,” and she frowned at the realization, “you're probably not going to find cocoa either. And I'm not drinking plain warm milk.”  
  
“You have it.” At her dubious look, Oliver laughed. “Trust me, I was surprised as well.”  
  
“Huh. It must have been something Mia....” Felicity's words died in her throat. Despite the spasm of guilt that she had to swallow, she refused to finish her thought, because she just needed a few minutes without her daughter – just her, and Oliver, and them together. Maybe it made her a bad mother, maybe it made her a selfish mother, but she was more than just Mia's mom; she was also a woman, and it had been so long since she had someone in her life to remind her of that fact. And Oliver did just that – Oliver, his touch upon her skin, his body next to hers, his concern, his smiles, and his hot chocolate. Needing a distraction and genuinely wanting to know more about him, Felicity requested, “tell me more about your sister. Or Raisa. Was she your nanny?”  
  
And so Oliver did just that. As he continued to make her hot chocolate, he explained how Raisa was more than just her title (whatever that may have been), her job, and how, even to that day, she was still a part of his life, that she still worked for him. As he transferred the heated up milk into yet another oversized mug and then added cocoa, and sugar, and what he called 'a pinch of salt' – somehow just knowing the amounts without actually having to measure, Oliver revealed that his sister now knew about them, that they were... a part of each other's lives. And that she wasn't too happy about that fact. And, as Felicity slowly savored the most delicious hot chocolate she had ever tasted (it was official: those mix packets would no longer cut it; Oliver would always have to make her hot chocolate from now on), he told her that, although Thea refused to help him help her by staying with Connor at night, his brother-in-law, Roy, had joined their search, pulling shifts day and night to assist.  
  
By the time Felicity was lapping up the last drops of her drink, she was yawning and fighting to keep her eyes open. “Did you slip me a mickey or something?”  
  
Oliver chuckled. “What?”  
  
“Because I happen to know for a fact....” Felicity had to pause in order to yawn... which ended in a snuffle that would have been mortifying had she not been so tired. “ … warm milk has not been scientifically proven to make people sleepy.”  
  
“You watched me make your hot chocolate, Felicity. I didn't put anything in it.” Oliver came to stand before her, his arms going to her sides to cage her in. She didn't feel trapped, though. It was more like he wanted to make sure she didn't fall. Unconsciously, she widened her legs so he could stand between them. “You're just that exhausted.”  
  
Her head slipped down to rest against his shoulder – his very broad, his very strong, his very capable and comfortable shoulder. “Hm... yeah.” Her eyes slipped shut. But just for a minute. Just one minute. Okay, maybe two. And then she'd get up, and make some more calls, and check the facial recognition scans she had running, because, despite what she had said to Connor, Felicity still had to try to find her daughter through every means at her disposal. “Maybe. A little,” she mumbled.  
  
The last thing she knew before oblivion swallowed her whole was Oliver lifting her off the counter and into his arms, a murmured, “goodnight,” and a kiss against her forehead as he carried her into the darkness of sleep.

 


	12. FF#40: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Twelve

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #40: Christmas Eve**

**Chapter Twelve**

Spending the night had not been a part of his plan.   
  
Then again, neither had falling asleep, yet both things had occurred.  
  
After Oliver carried an already sleeping Felicity into her bedroom and put her to bed, he had sat down beside her. Leaning up against her headboard, Oliver had wanted to make sure that she really fell into a deep slumber before resuming his search of the city for her daughter. He didn't want Felicity to toss and turn for an hour and then force herself awake. Oliver admired her dedication to her child, her commitment, and her courage. In fact, those were some of the qualities that attracted him to her. But, over the past week, he had watched those same strengths take their toll. If Felicity continued the way she was going, it wouldn't matter if he fulfilled his promise and found her daughter for her, because Felicity would already be dead.  
  
It amazed... and made him furious... to know that, up until they had met, Felicity had been fighting Mia's addiction on her own. While he knew that her mother was a part of their lives, it was from a distance. She could support her daughter emotionally, but Felicity's mom didn't share in the physical and mental abuse that living with and loving an addict caused. She wasn't there for the day to day struggle, or the worry, or the self-blame and self-doubt, or the sacrifices. Perhaps their relationship was new – so new, in fact, and faced with so many complications that it was impossible to know if there was even a chance for the two of them to make it work, but Oliver had already promised himself that, together as a couple or not, when it came to Mia's... and subsequently Felicity's... health, he was going to be there.  
  
At least, for now, he didn't have to worry about Felicity collapsing from exhaustion. She had slept through the night – so thoroughly, in fact, that he had fallen asleep right beside her without even realizing it was happening. One minute, Oliver was counting every rise and fall of her chest from where she laid beside him, and, the next, he was feeling the soft warmth of the sunrise as it came in through Felicity's bedroom window. Still, however, he didn't get up. Too comfortable, too content exactly where he was – now, laying down next to Felicity, Oliver had allowed himself to doze, to hover in that lull between the unconsciousness of sleep and the awareness of being fully awake. Then, Felicity touched him, and he couldn't have stood from that bed even if the city was falling down around them.  
  
Her fingers were cool. For a woman so bright and vibrant, this surprised Oliver. Hair of sunshine, lips of fire, clothes of life and light, he had just assumed her skin would burn as hot. The contrast, though, the contradiction, was addictive. So, he remained still. He kept his breathing and heart rate slow, and he made sure not to react to her touch, yet Oliver also didn't force his stillness, for he didn't want to appear unnatural. And, despite wanting to return the embrace, he allowed Felicity her chance to observe him without comment or interruption. Maybe they hadn't known each other for long, but that didn't mean that they didn't know each other well, and Oliver knew, as soon as he opened his eyes, she would stop.  
  
And he didn't want her to stop.  
  
If he had to describe her touch, Oliver would say that it felt as if Felicity was trying to map his face. The very tips of her fingers ran over his hairline, his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose. She traced the lines that burst out from the corners of his eyes and the shell of his ears. Though her skin was the petal of a delicate bloom, at one point, Oliver felt the crisp smoothness of the glass vase being brushed over the stubble that covered his cheeks, chin, and jaw. It took him a moment to realize that she had turned her hand over and what he was feeling were her painted nails against his scruff. But then she touched his mouth. Oliver would swear that he could detect the swirls and lines of her fingerprints against his lips before the tease of her fingernails against the tender flesh made him gasp, his mouth opening. Instinctively, his tongue slipped out to wet his lips, and, before Felicity could react quick enough to pull her hand away, for a brief moment, he tasted her.  
  
As his still heavy with sleep lashes flickered open, Felicity emitted a sharp, “eep!” It was adorable, though he knew better than to say so. A lazy, content smile took possession of his face... but only for a second. Because then Felicity was apologizing, and that was the last thing he wanted to hear from her. “I'm so sorry.”  
  
He didn't understand what she had to regret. Gone was his grin only to be replaced with a frown. “It's fine.” She groaned, pulling the blankets up and over her head, holding them there and hiding herself. “Felicity?”  
  
“Felicity just died of embarrassment. She will be erased from your memory in three, two, one.”  
  
As she talked, Oliver chuckled underneath his breath _and_ tried to tug the sheet from her grasp, but she held on tight. So, getting creative, he sat up and slipped to the end of the bed, crawling underneath the sheet from the bottom and advancing, stalking, his way up towards the headboard and a hiding Felicity. “Why are you embarrassed?”  
  
She glared at him, tilting her head to the side like he was the one being absurd. “Oliver, I was _petting_ you.”  
  
“I know.” she groaned again. “And I liked it.”  
  
“Oh.” Deciding to take a chance when he realized that naturally her legs had parted to cradle him as he slid up along her body, Oliver lowered his hips, fitting precisely within the juncture of her thighs. He pressed into her, and, this time when she made a sound, she gasped. “ _Oh_.”  
  
“Felicity, you never have to apologize for touching me. I know now isn't the right time, but I wanted you....”  
  
“Who says it isn't?”  
  
Caught off guard by her interruption, by her question, Oliver could only say, “what?”  
  
Instead of answering him directly, however, Felicity revealed, “last night, for the first time in I don't know how long, I allowed myself to just... be me. For a few minutes. I pushed aside my worry for Mia, and I savored... you. And it made me realize that, while I'll never quit on my daughter – I don't care if it takes me another day or the rest of my life to find her, I won't ever stop looking, I did quit on myself.” Pausing to lick her lips, and Oliver wouldn't have been human, wouldn't have been a man very much attracted to the woman lying underneath him, if his eyes didn't appreciatively follow the movement, Felicity regrouped, took a breath, seemed to center herself. “I have teaching and my students. I have my side business. I have Mia. But that's it. I have... _had_ nothing for myself... until you. I know it's fast, but....”  
  
“No, I feel the same way.” Because Felicity had been so honest, he decided to offer her the same sincerity. “There are... things I need to tell you. Important things. Things that... made me promise myself, when I first met you, that I wouldn't let this... us happen. But I _couldn't_ push you away, Felicity. Everyone else in my life, I keep at a distance, but you....”   
  
Not knowing exactly how to explain what he was feeling, Oliver shared something else, though it held just as much significance and weight. “Since the Queens Gambit went down, I haven't slept without nightmares. Not once. But last night, sitting next to you as you slept beside me, when I had no intentions of staying, I fell asleep. And I stayed asleep, all night – no night-terrors, no night-sweats. I didn't wake up in a panic. So, yeah. I feel it, too.”  
  
Reminding himself that they had known each other for just a week, Oliver slipped off Felicity's body and to the side, laying next to her with his head pillowed by his bent elbow. “I'm glad you stayed.”  
  
“But I shouldn't have,” Oliver continued to protest. But that protest died in his throat when Felicity sat up and pulled her t-shirt over her head, leaving her gloriously bare from the waist up. When she settled back down beside him, she, too, was laying on her side so that they were facing each other. Her delicate, nimble fingers lifted to his own shirt, slowly unbuttoning it.  
  
Oliver didn't question her or her intentions; he wouldn't insult her that way. And he certainly couldn't turn her away. Instead, after his shirt was shrugged free from his shoulders, his arms, his wrists, his hands and tossed aside, he held his embrace open for Felicity to move closer, bidding her to, “come here.”  
  
And she did.  
  
She moved into his arms, and she dropped her own to begin removing their remaining articles of clothing, and she kissed him. It was a lazy kiss, and it matched their explorations of each others' bodies. He ran a hand down the valley of her chest, spreading his palm and fingers out wide to spider against her torso. Oliver's touch practically spanned her entire abdomen, Felicity was so tiny, and it just made him that much more determined to protect her. He curled an arm underneath her shoulders, her neck so that he could tangle his grasp within her full, messy, blonde locks. Oliver then clenched his hand that was in her hair, and Felicity moaned, granting him the chance to slip inside of her mouth. He slid his other arm between her legs, lifting one and wrapping it around his hips, opening her body and helping her ready it for their joining. Oliver noticed a scar that ran along her lower abdomen, and his heart clenched in recognition: that was _her_ battle scar, her mark of survival, her memorial to someone she loved.   
  
And then he entered her, moved inside of her.  
  
Afterwards, as Felicity donned a long, silky robe, and Oliver stepped back into his trousers, he watched her closely. She was smiling softly – that secretive smile women had and men would forever chase. “You're not going to ask?”  
  
“Oh,” Felicity murmured, glancing up at him. That smile grew. “Breakfast?”  
  
He thought she'd want to know about _his_ scars, his tattoos – those physical manifestations of what had been five years very much not alone and not actually always on a Chinese island. But she didn't. Her gaze tracked his body, but it wasn't in curiosity, or fear, or pity; it was in appreciation – not through denial but total acceptance, the good and the bad. “I've seen your cupboards, Smoak. I don't know if that's such a good idea.”  
  
He was teasing her, and she was lapping it up. “Maybe I can't cook, but I can smear.”  
  
Felicity went to leave her bedroom, and Oliver followed after her. “Smear?”  
  
“Bagels. With cream cheese.”  
  
It wasn't what he usually ate for breakfast – all carbs and no real substance, but a bagel suddenly sounded delicious. And they were already running late, so they probably shouldn't linger. Oliver had phone calls to make – he needed to check in with Connor, apologize to Digg for failing to show up the night before, and he needed to run home to shower and change before going into the office, but he wasn't ready to leave, to leave her, yet. And Felicity had to go to work, too, and their search for her daughter had to resume, but what was forming between them shouldn't and couldn't be rushed out the door.   
  
Felicity was still chattering on excitedly in front of him, hands waving and words coming faster and faster as she explained the proper smear technique when Oliver detected a shift in the stillness around them. Floorboards creaked, the air moved... as if a door was being opened, and he heard someone, someone besides Felicity, breathe. “Well, it looks like somebody's been awfully good this year.”  
  
The remark was not said in praise or even playful jest but cruelly, derisively. But Felicity didn't seem to care. She pushed by him and ran down the hall towards an extremely petite, young girl with skin too pale, and hair shorn too short, eyes too hard, and a frame too thin. “Oh, god, Mia,” Felicity cried. But before Felicity could take her daughter into her arms, the teenager pushed her mother away.   
  
So, _this_ was Mia Smoak.

 


	13. FF#41: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Thirteen

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #41: Amnesia**

**Chapter Thirteen**

In the back of Felicity's mind, even as she moved towards her daughter, she knew it wasn't a good idea to approach Mia. But she couldn't _not_ at least try to touch her little girl, to hold her. It had been a week since she had last seen the sixteen year old, last had that reassurance that Mia was alright. Alive. Not attempting would have hurt more than what she knew the results of her gesture would bring her.  
  
“Back off, hag. You know you're not supposed to touch me. Ever.”  
  
She listened. A parent should never take orders from their child, but Felicity also knew that pushing the issue with Mia would only make the situation worse. Perhaps by backing down, by giving in, she was enabling her daughter... or, at least, the deplorable state of their pretty much non-existent relationship, but Felicity felt like she didn't have a choice. Despite knowing better, however, she found herself mumbling, “jeez, you'd think I'm a carrier for the plague. First Connor, now....”  
  
“Wait, who's Connor,” Mia interrupted, looking intrigued. Her gaze flickered towards Oliver, and she asked, “are you Connor?”  
  
“Connor's my son.”  
  
“Oh, I see how it is,” Mia drawled out her words. And Felicity winced. Although she didn't know where her daughter was taking this, she knew it wouldn't be pretty. Silently, she chastised herself for bringing even the idea of Connor onto Mia's radar, and she wished that Oliver would just go. He did not deserve to be subjected to Mia's abuse, and so much for their burgeoning relationship. It was one thing to be warned about Mia; it was a whole different story to see her in action. “You'll tell _his_ son about the two of you, but, if I hadn't interrupted the walk of shame this morning, I would have been kept in the dark.”  
  
Perhaps it was Mia trying to play the victim, or perhaps it was the ugly spin Mia was putting upon Oliver and Felicity's morning, but Felicity wouldn't let her daughter make such assumptions. “If you came home... if you wouldn't have run off _again_ in the first place, then I would have told you about Oliver, Mia.”  
  
“What, you would have told me that you were sleeping with him, or you would have told me you were fucking a married man?”  
  
At the same time, both Felicity and Oliver started sputtering denials. “I'm not....  
  
“I can't believe you'd think.... He's not....”  
  
“Hey, no judgement,” Mia cut them off, holding her hands up to ward away their words. Afterwards, however, she didn't drop them back to her sides. Instead, Mia pushed up her long, dark sleeves and started scratching at her forearms. As she scratched, she talked. “I already know you're a whore,” she told her mother. Then, to make it even worse, she said to Oliver, “and, frankly, I don't care what _or who_ you do... though I do have a proposition for you.”  
  
“No, Mia,” Felicity started to yell at her daughter.  
  
But the teenager talked right over top of her. “If you're going to screw around on your wife, at least make it worth the risk. $50 to suck you off, $100 for a quick fuck. If you're into anything kinky, the price goes up.”  
  
“Oh god,” Felicity exclaimed, face burning with mortification, stomach rioting in disgust, mouth filling with bile. She wanted to cry; she thought she might get sick.  
  
“When you think about it, what I'm offering is a bargain. I'm younger, less... _used_. After you take this one,” Mia indicated Felicity, “out to dinner, and buy her flowers, listen to her incessant nagging for an entire evening, and she's emotionally needy and manipulative, so you know she's going to want to cuddle, frankly, the bitch just isn't worth the time. Plus, look at her. She's a cold fish. She'll screw you three ways to Sunday, but she won't be looking to make you cum.”  
  
Felicity couldn't look at Oliver. She just... couldn't. Furious, embarrassed, hurt, and afraid about what this moment meant in regards to Mia's safety and health, the only thing she could focus on was what she had to do next. “Stop it, Mia. Just... stop it.” Moving forward and to the side so that she was directly facing her daughter and quite literally leaning down to get into her face, Felicity ordered, “go take a shower. Now!”  
  
“Why?” Smirking, Mia added, “after fucking you, I'm sure Oliver would like it a little... dirty.”  
  
Ignoring her, Felicity instructed, “while you're getting yourself cleaned up, I'll pack your bag and call off from work. You're going to rehab. Again. Today. This morning.”  
  
Scoffing and placing her fists on cocked hips, Mia dismissed, “please. There's no way you'll be able to pay.... Oh!” Snorting in realization and sneering in derision, Felicity's daughter remarked, “I get it. Not only is Connor _his_ son, but he's also your student.” Mia's left brow arched... like she was looking down upon Felicity despite the fact that her sixteen year old was even more petite than her. “Congratulations, Felicity. You went from whoring yourself out for consulting contracts and software development deals to just whoring yourself out.” Peering around her shoulders, Mia spoke directly to Oliver. “I'd be careful if I were you. She'll drain you dry. With you, it'll probably just be your money, so you'll be lucky, but my dad? She literally sucked the life out of him. Killed him.”  
  
As Mia kept ranting, her voice rising and rising until the point where she was screaming, Felicity realized that Oliver had moved forward so that he was standing directly beside her. Speaking softly, the deeper tones of his voice slipping under Mia's high pitched shrieking, he asked her, “do you trust me?”  
  
Frankly, she didn't know how to answer him – not because Felicity questioned Oliver's honor or sincerity but because... how, why was he even still there? How could he still care enough for her to talk to her so gently, to actually sound worried that she _wouldn't_ trust him. Why, in that moment, did her trust even matter to him. “What?”  
  
Oliver dipped down, bending his knees, and he forced her to look him in the eyes. “Do you trust me, Felicity?”  
  
“Yeah,” she admitted, nodding slowly. When Oliver didn't react, when he just continued to search her gaze, her face, for an answer, Felicity squared her shoulders and spoke with conviction. After everything that had happened, everything that had been said that morning, she didn't feel like she knew much of anything at all. However, the one thing Felicity was unequivocally sure of was Oliver. “Yes. I trust you.”  
  
Then, before she could even blink, Oliver had slipped around her. He had no sooner come to stand behind Mia before he was lifting his arms, wrapping them around Felicity's daughter, and then Mia was collapsing bonelessly, _lifelessly_ , to the floor.   
  
Behind her glasses, her eyes widened in horror, in fear. “What... you... Mia?”  
  
“She's fine,” Oliver was quick to reassure her.  
  
But his words proved empty in the face of her daughter's crumpled, motionless body. “But she's....”  
  
“Felicity,” he snapped. Oliver's short tone was used to center her, not to express frustration. “It's as if she's just unconscious – asleep.”  
  
“How... I...?”  
  
“It's hard to explain, but it has to do with pressure points.”  
  
For several moments, she thought about Oliver – about what he had just said to her, what she had just witnessed him capable of, the scars she had earlier considered nothing more than just a part of who he was... like a birthmark or a mole. As the pieces started to align themselves, Felicity murmured, “I know you sunk with a boat instead of waking up on one, but, otherwise, I'd swear you were Jason Bourne.”  
  
Calmly, rationally, Oliver refuted, “I do not work for the CIA, Felicity.”  
  
“Right. Of course,” she quickly agreed with him, rolling her eyes like her assumption was ridiculous. Which it was... in an improbable way, though it was suddenly the only explanation that made any sense whatsoever.   
  
“It was ARGUS, though I haven't been an active agent for many years now.”  
  
What the hell was ARGUS?! And why was Oliver telling her this? While Felicity was pretty sure that government agencies weren't exactly like _Fight_ _Club_ , they were close enough that she was certain the first rule of _Fight_ _Club_ applied. Did this mean that Oliver was reading her in, or would she now have to sign some confidentiality agreement? And what if ARGUS found out about her – about her past, about Mia, about Cooper, about Felicity's... _talents_? Maybe she didn't know what (or who) exactly ARGUS was, but Felicity knew she wanted – no, she needed – to stay off the agency's radar.  
  
“Felicity?”  
  
“What,” she questioned instinctively. She also attempted to back away, and, in doing so caught a glimpse of an unconscious Mia out of the corner of her eye, and Felicity forced herself to step away, mentally, from the wormhole time-suck that was her own brain but not physically from the man in front of her. “Right.” She took several deep breaths and shook her head for some clarity. “Mia. She's not... _awake_ now, but, when she....”  
  
“I'd like... I'd like to take her with me,” Oliver interjected uncomfortably.   
  
“To where,” Felicity ineptly inquired. “Your house?”  
  
Without directly addressing her question, Oliver explained himself. “I think I can help her, Felicity. Mia's angry. She's so angry that she's self-destructing. And I know what that's like. She needs a target....”  
  
“You mean other than me,” she offered self-deprecatingly.  
  
“ … a release for that anger. I can give that to her.”  
  
Helplessly, she folded her arms over her chest. “While Mia was wrong about _so many things_ earlier, Oliver, she wasn't wrong about my finances. I'm broke. Although I never had _any_ intentions of asking you for money, I also didn't know how I was going to pay for her to go to rehab this time. My credit cards are maxed, my credit score is pretty much non-existent, and my mom barely makes ends meet, so she couldn't help. My idea was just to get her there and then worry about the money later. But it's not like rehab's ever worked before for Mia. I just don't know what else to do for her.”  
  
“Does this mean that you're willing to consider....”  
  
“Are you sure about this, Oliver,” Felicity interrupted his question. Because she was more than just considering his offer. There was so much she didn't know about him, but that didn't scare her. Her temporary panic about his secret agent background aside, as she had realized before, Felicity trusted Oliver. She trusted him with her past, with her heart, and, most importantly, she trusted him with her daughter.   
  
He chuckled humorlessly. “No.” Before she could react, he rushed to clarify. “I mean, yes, I'm sure about helping Mia. What I'm unsure of is what helping her will mean for me, for us.” If Oliver was worried about Connor, about how his helping Mia would impact his son, then.... “Felicity, I have a lot of secrets,” he erased her assumptions with his confession. “And they're not just about those five years I was away.”  
  
“So do I, Oliver.”  
  
Shaking his head in argument, he insisted, “they're not the same.”  
  
Felicity shrugged. “Maybe not. But a secret is a secret. You wouldn't be human if you didn't have some, and I can't fault you for yours if you don't hold mine against me. I haven't told you everything about my life yet, Oliver. We're still getting to know one another. But you've proven to me that, when it matters, you'll tell me the truth, and that's all that I _should_ ask of you, but I'm about to ask more.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Don't tell Mia the truth about her dad – about his suicide,” she beseeched him. “No matter what happens while you're trying to help her get clean, I need you to keep my secrets for me.”  
  
For several seconds, Oliver was silent and still – so much so, in fact, that Felicity started to believe that he would refuse her request. But then he shocked her. “After the Gambit went down, my dad and another crew member made it onto a life raft. They fished me out of the ocean.” His voice in its confession was soft with the grief of memory, raspy with regret. “But there wasn't enough water for three of us to survive. Or even two. My father shot the crew member, and then he shot himself. So, no, Felicity, I won't tell your daughter that her dad was a coward and killed himself, because I'll never get the sound of my own father dying out of my head, and I wouldn't put that same burden on anyone else's shoulders.”  
  
Which meant that, for the past almost twenty years, Oliver had been living with that burden alone. He'd never told his mother or his sister the truth. Yet, he told _her_.   
  
Of course she trusted him.   
  
As Oliver bent over, sliding one arm beneath Mia's knees and the other around her shoulders, he told her, “please don't think this is me pulling away from you, Felicity. In the past, I ran away from every serious relationship I even came close to, but I'm not running from you.”  
  
She walked with him towards her apartment's door, not speaking until she had it pulled open for him and he was standing in the threshold, cradling her daughter in his arms. Against Oliver, Mia looked even smaller, even more fragile, even more broken. “You're trying to help my little girl. Even after all the disgusting things she said to you, you're still willing to be there for her. For me. And you already care about her, because she's mine. So, no, I don't think you're running away from me, Oliver; it feels like you're running _towards_ me.”  
  
His forehead came to rest against hers, their noses brushed together, and Oliver sighed with relief against her mouth. “I'll call you with an update as soon as I get her settled,” he promised. And then, with the barest hint of a goodbye kiss, he – with a still unconscious Mia in his arms – was gone. 

 


	14. FF#42: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Fourteen

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #42: One Question**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Mia was still unconscious – in part, because Oliver needed a moment to center himself, but he also knew the absolute hell she was about to experience, and even one more minute of peace was a gift to both of them.   
  
Arms folded over his chest and ankles crossed before him, Oliver leaned back against a medical table, the cold steel below the cotton of his t-shirt grounding him. It was a reminder of everything he still needed to do before Mia woke up... or, well, before he woke Mia up. The base he made of his basement needed to be stripped of anything that could possibly pose a danger to Mia or anyone else there to help her. He needed to stock the space with supplies: with clean, utilitarian clothes that, again, couldn't be used in self-harm; in gatorade and orange juice, in water and bland and gentle foods. There were phone calls and arrangements to make, and Oliver still had to figure out what exactly he was going to say to Connor and Thea, to Raisa and Roy whose help he needed, yet he couldn't reveal to them too much while asking for it.   
  
But, just like waking Mia could wait a few more minutes, so, too, could Oliver's preparations. As he stood there... just watching the tiny, broken teenager, Oliver made note of several details. Previously, when first confronted with Mia's rage towards her mother, he'd been caught off guard and too upset on Felicity's behalf to really observe Mia for herself. But now Oliver felt like he was actually seeing _her_ and not just Felicity's little girl.   
  
Oh, there was no denying the fact that Felicity and Mia were related. They shared the same facial structure, the same delicate frame, the same eyes. Even with Mia's lids closed over that particular shade of blue – _Felicity blue_ , Oliver could at least remember that much about the sixteen year old from that morning's scene at the Smoak women's apartment. While Mia was even smaller than Felicity – not an easy feat... and something Oliver guessed was a result of her sustained drug use, the other differences in their physical appearances seemed deliberate – like Mia was forcing the issue. What Oliver didn't know was whether those differences were necessary for the young girl because she wanted to be different than her mother or if it was more than that – if it was a need to establish her own identity.  
  
If it was the latter, that was something Oliver could understand and relate with even. He liked Felicity. He, well, he _more than_ liked Felicity, but, even caring for her the way he was really starting to, Oliver knew her shadow would not be a pleasant one to stand behind. She was just so... bright, so full of life, and that level of accomplishment – whether as a CEO (like his own father) or even, as some idiots would say, just a technology teacher like Felicity – could feel like an impossible standard to live up to.   
  
He'd only known Mia for a couple of hours, but Oliver could already tell that she pulled around with her a weighty inferiority complex, born from her issues stemming from her father's death and the addiction spiral her anger towards her parents had set her upon. Add to that the fact that she blamed her mother, her only living parent, for her dad's death and the typical teenage angst – that drive to be different, to stand out, to be special, and it was no wonder Mia's hair was shorn so short she sported just a fine, brunette fuzz on top of her head, that her clothes were loose and plain, that her skin and features pale with the effects of her sickness and her absolute refusal to do anything to make herself look even more like her mother.   
  
A part of Oliver was surprised that Mia hadn't gone in the opposite direction – instead of trying to wipe away their similarities that she hadn't attempted to cover them up with black, hidden them behind a darkness that was the exact opposite of Felicity. Briefly, he considered the idea that maybe Felicity, in her youth, had gone through her own dark period – a goth faze. After all, in her explanation of her past with Mia's father, she had hinted towards her own former anger, but the idea of Felicity as a goth was simply ludicrous, and maybe Oliver was giving Mia too much credit. In her drug-addled state, who knew why she had done the things she had to her appearance. Perhaps her shaved head was the result of hallucinations, and her sallow pallor due to the fact that her addiction had driven away all other desires, interests, and hobbies but that need to plunge a needle between her fingers and feel the rush of oblivion only heroin could....  
  
“Oh, hell no.”  
  
Although he had been expecting him, Diggle's entrance was... less than conventional for the security expert. Still not standing from where he was leaning against the steel table, Oliver twisted his head towards the basement's entrance, his brow furrowing as he observed the other man. “Digg,” he questioned his guard's emphatic declaration, his tone; he questioned the obvious cocktail of frustration and annoyance.   
  
But he didn't receive an answer. Instead, as he pounded down the stairs, John spewed a continuous litany of denials. Denials of what, Oliver had no idea. “No. No, no, no, no, no. Nuh uh. I don't think so. Absolutely not. _NO_.”  
  
“Are you finished?”  
  
Rounding on him with wide, disbelieving eyes, Digg countered, “are _you_ out of your ever-loving mind?”  
  
Quickly, Oliver went over everything he had done, said, and even thought since the last time he and Diggle had touched base, trying to figure out what had set the older man off. But he came up blank. While Digg would probably have something to say about Oliver starting a real relationship with Felicity, if he had a problem with it, he should have said something _before_ they spent the last week searching for her missing kid. Because, whether they were friends in the traditional sense or not, John knew him well, so he knew that taking such a step with a woman was not something Oliver would do lightly, especially not now with Connor in his already complicated life. Plus, for as often as Oliver and John had saved each other's lives, they weren't partners in Oliver's mission. They worked together. In fact, John worked _for_ him, and John was also the first one to remind Oliver of that distinction when something they did came too close to Digg's personal life, to his family. Those aspects of Diggle's life were clearly separated, so Oliver's should be as well.  
  
Having digested his thoughts in a matter of seconds, Oliver narrowed his gaze in the other man's direction. “Excuse me?”  
  
“You have pulled a lot of crazy stunts over the years, Oliver, but I draw the line at this.” Still not grasping what John was so fired up about, Oliver raised his brows, silently instructing his guard to spit it out already. In response, Digg gestured towards the basement. More specifically, he pointed towards Mia. “I will not be party to kidnapping a teenage girl.”  
  
While he had been prepared to explain his decision to help Mia in this way to Roy and Raisa whom he needed to help take shifts in watching over Felicity's daughter while she detoxed, Oliver had hoped Diggle would get what he was trying to do without the words. Sighing – because he'd only been awake for a few hours, but he was already exhausted; because they hadn't even really started with Mia, and already Oliver was doubting whether or not he could actually do this – if he could help this troubled girl; because, if John didn't _get it_ and support him, then how the hell was he supposed to convince someone who didn't know the truth about his background that he was capable of changing a child's life; because all he really wanted to do was drive back to Felicity's apartment, crawl into bed beside her, and never leave again, but the possibility of that faded further and further away with every moment that passed, and Oliver lifted his right hand to his nose to pinch the bridge. As he exhaled, he defended himself. “Felicity knows where her daughter is, Digg. I didn't kidnap Mia.”  
  
“She _knows_ where her daughter is. _Really_?”  
  
The sarcasm wasn't hard to miss and neither was the meaning behind it. “Of course she doesn't know _that_ ,” Oliver snapped, glaring at the other man. Finally pushing away from the medical table, he started pacing. The otherwise generous width of the underground room was broken up by numerous stations containing their supplies throughout the sterile, cold space. “I'm not an idiot.”  
  
“Eh,” Diggle hedged.  
  
Oliver ignored him. “Look, if you don't want to help, fine. Leave. But I thought that, if there was anyone who would understand why I have to do this, it'd be you.”  
  
“I can see why you'd want to,” Digg allowed. “She's an innocent who needs saving. That's what you do. Plus, it doesn't hurt that you're already halfway in love with her mother.”  
  
While Oliver chose to ignore Digg's attempt to talk about his feelings, he did address the doubt they could have been hinting towards. “This isn't about trying to impress Felicity.”  
  
“I know that, Oliver. You're not that kind of man anymore, and, frankly, this might surprise you, but I think Felicity... and even Mia, too... are good for you. They'll make you a better, smarter fighter, because they'll give you something worth coming home to... just like with Connor. But this,” John gestured towards the still unconscious teenager, “is a disaster waiting to happen.”  
  
They could go back and forth on this for hours, but Oliver decided to cut straight to the point. “Rehab won't work, Digg. Mia's already been there more times than Felicity could afford, and, after every single trip, she relapsed willingly. Happily. I'm not saying that I know what I'm doing exactly. That's why I need your help... and Roy's and Raisa's, but I have to try.” Ceasing his pacing, he moved so that he could stand by his guard, the two of them solemnly looking at a frail, still Mia. “She's angry, Diggle – so angry that she's not-so-slowly killing herself, because she has no place to put her anger.” With an ironic twist of his lips, he asked, “sound familiar?”  
  
Dryly, the other man remarked, “vaguely,” though they both knew the comparison was anything but ambiguous. “So, what? You're going to help her detox and then put a bowl of water in a front of her?”  
  
There were moments... ones like this one where Digg could be so flip... when Oliver regretted sharing even the smallest details of his past with the other man. “Learning a skill, learning to trust herself and her body, physically training to become mentally stronger can help her stay sober, John. I know it.”  
  
“And after you've molded her into a warrior, Oliver, what then,” the security expert pushed him. “After she figures out the truth about you... and she will, because what other conclusion will she be able to draw after she sees your scars, after you train her in martial arts, after you teach her to use a bow, how will this girl ever go back to the world outside of this basement? How will you? Because she'll either turn you in... if she's smart, or you'll constantly be looking over your shoulder in doubt, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and this will cause you to make a mistake, and then we'll both be in trouble. Or worse. Because, once Mia knows the truth, it's only a matter of time before your sister, and Connor, and Roy, and Raisa, and then Felicity learn it, too.”  
  
While Digg wouldn't believe him, in the fleeting moments that Oliver considered the potential consequences of his actions before he asked Felicity if she trusted him, he had considered these outcomes of his offer to help Mia get clean. Quite frankly, there was a part of him that didn't care if his secret came out. His exhaustion was more than just physical and mental. He was almost forty years old, and, selfishly, Oliver wanted to get to know his son without the threat of the truth looming over them; he wanted to date Felicity and maybe make a life with her without having to worry that, in doing so, he'd be selfishly damning her to suffer the repercussions of his actions. But more than this desire for change in his life was the overwhelming truth that this was just something that he _had_ to do. There was no other choice to make.  
  
Speaking slowly and softly, he tried to express this to Diggle. “I knew that Walter was suspicious of my mother all those years ago after I first returned home. I knew that he was secretly having her investigated, that their marriage was falling apart, and I knew that he wasn't safe, but I didn't say anything. I kept quiet to protect my secret, and he was kidnapped. I stayed quiet, and he eventually was killed... just like 504 other people were killed, because I decided it was better to save them in secret on my own versus risk revealing myself in order to ask for help.”  
  
“Oliver, you have to know that Tommy and Laurel died because of Malcolm, not you.”  
  
“And Sara died on that god-forsaken island because of Malcolm, too, right, and not because I was too much of a coward to tell her sister that I didn't want to move in together? And my mother died in prison because of Malcolm as well and not because I knew it would be too much of a coincidence if the Hood rescued Moira Queen from jail?”  
  
“You've made mistakes.” Chuckling lowly, John tried and failed to add some levity to their conversation. “We both know that I'm the first person to tell you when you're wrong. But you've changed, Oliver. You're better than you were when you first came back, and you're helping this city without taking lives.”  
  
Walking away and walking towards where Mia was handcuffed to an army cot, Oliver offered up one more thing for Digg to consider. “Maybe _not_ killing isn't enough for me anymore; maybe, for once, I need to help someone save themselves.”  
  
And, with that, Oliver found the pressure points he would need to bring the addicted teenager back to consciousness. With a startled gasp, Mia Smoak woke up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a child of an alcoholic, I do not have any illusions about the struggle that is recovery and sobriety. This story is by no means meant to be an accurate portrayal of what that process would be like for a heroin addict. While I do think a lot of what Oliver has planned for Mia would be healthy and good for her (and there's more that has not yet been revealed in this latest chapter), I'm not a drug counselor. What I know about heroin addiction comes from the media - both fictional and non-fictional accounts - and from reading. This certainly does not an expert make. However, what I do feel that I have the authority to write about is what it is like to emotionally live with an addict, and I have witnessed first hand what it is like for an addict to live with themselves. That - the feelings these characters have for each other - is the truth of this story, their relationships what are important. So, please, keep this in mind while reading this fic. Thanks!


	15. FF#43: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Fifteen

**Chipped Blocks  
An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #43: The Mistress**

**Chapter Fifteen**

It felt like someone was watching her.  
  
As Felicity stood outside of Oliver's _home_ , looking up, up, and up at the _massive_ structure before her while she mentally prepped to face Mia for the first time since Oliver kung-fu'd her daughter to sleep, she could admit that maybe she was slightly paranoid, but... Nope. Side-eyeing the shadows that lurked with her beneath the portico, Felicity felt that her suspicions about the _house_ were accurate. After all, she was standing in front of a freaking _gothic_ _castle_. Fo shizzle her nizzle... but, no, wait. Don't. Scratch that. Because, for Felicity, nizzle always sounded too much like nipple, and, while she didn't know what exactly 'fo shizzle' was, it didn't sound pleasant.  
  
Where was she?  
  
Oh, yeah! Gothic.  
  
Like... she was pretty sure there was a headless horseman roaming the woods off to her right. And, if she walked _way_ around until she circled the east-north-east wing (because you could not use _only_ the cardinal directions to describe all the offshoots of the Queen Family Mansion), she knew that she'd eventually find some ghost haunting a moor under the full moon. Plus, if she wasn't mistaken, Felicity was pretty sure that scuffle she had just heard was Emily Bronte killing Mary Shelley in the library _with a candlestick_... or her name wasn't Felicity Codebreaker Smoak.  
  
Okay, so her name was Felicity Megan Smoak, and Megan didn't translate into Codebreaker in any language... not even Navajo (which was just wrong – so wrong), but, still, it was her middle name in spirit, and that counted, right?   
  
Anyway, Codebreaker or Megan, it didn't change the fact that Oliver's _home_ was beyond creepy. And crawly. “Insert two finger snaps here,” Felicity mumbled to herself. Breathing in deeply, she exhaled through her nose and mouth, her shoulders rising and falling with the effort.  
  
“Impressive, isn't it?”  
  
“Oh, dear sweet Time Lord,” Felicity swore. (Well, sort of.) And gasped. And she would have stumbled, too, if the person off to her side would have spoken just a second later, for she had been about to step forward and ring the bell.   
  
“Time Lord,” the other voice repeated in question. Inside of her own mind, Felicity amended that it had been the other woman who had asked her the query, because 'the other voice' made it sound like the words had been disembodied, and she had already freaked herself out enough already, thank you very much.   
  
“Yeah. As in Gallifrey, Tardis, and the Doctor.”  
  
A petite brunette sauntered forward and into the light so that Felicity could finally see who she was talking to. “The Doctor who?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
The pretty young woman shook her head. “I have no idea what just happened.”  
  
Felicity nodded sympathetically. “Welcome to my world.”  
  
Instead of replying, her companion came to stand beside her so that they were both facing the Queen Family residence, redirecting the conversation back to her original line of thought when she had so startled Felicity. “The house is impressive, right?”  
  
In disbelief (because, seriously, _that's_ what she was going with?), Felicity snorted and rolled her eyes. “That's one way of putting it, I guess.”  
  
“And how would you describe it?”  
  
“I don't know. Maybe imposing,” Felicity suggested, shrugging her shoulders. “Or you could go with intimidating as well. But, really, if we're being honest with each other, the first thing I thought when I saw this place was that somebody was feeling a tiny bit insecure when they dreamed up the square footage of this monstrosity... which, now that I'm thinking about Dracula again, I can admit was a poor choice of words.”  
  
“So, then, you're not imagining what it would be like to be the lady of this house?”  
  
She had to give the other woman props for not saying _'mistress of this mansion'_ or even worse ' _queen of this castle_.' But, still, _no_! In fact, she was still stuck on the fact that she might have just given the brunette the wrong impression about Oliver's... _security_. Turning with wide, beseeching eyes to her left, Felicity said, “I wasn't talking about Oliver. Like _at all_. Trust me, there is nothing tiny about that man.” Realizing just exactly what she had admitted to a perfect stranger, Felicity froze. And then cringed. “Not that I'm saying that we've had sex. Or haven't. Oh god,” she moaned, lifting her hands to cover her face in mortification. “I don't know what's worse: confirming Oliver Queen's sex life to a reporter,” because who else could the stranger be?, “or allowing said reporter to think that the size of his house is overcompensating for his lack of size, um, elsewhere.”  
  
A chuckle behind and over her right shoulder had Felicity spinning around and flaming with embarrassment. Standing propped up in the doorway, she found a very amused Oliver grinning in her direction. Despite the sticky _and_ hairy situation (it was so bad that it was both), Oliver appeared casual and relaxed. His hands were in the front pockets of his dress pants, and his posture radiated warmth and joy. Felicity's confusion towards his reaction (or, perhaps, more accurately his lack thereof) was only trumped by the carefree way the brunette sauntered by Felicity and shoved past Oliver to stroll right into the Queen mansion. Although she didn't understand what exactly was going on, Felicity followed, her ignorance slowing her steps.   
  
It was only once they were all inside and Oliver had closed the door behind them that he told her, “Felicity, Speedy isn't a reporter; she's my sister.”  
  
“Oh god,” she groaned. Felicity could feel all that former self-conscious color draining from her face. “That's even worse.”  
  
A quirked, finely sculpted brow and a curt, “excuse me,” greeted her in return from the sibling in question.   
  
“I mean, not worse... worse. Obviously. But _worse_.” Biting her lip, she looked at Oliver out of the corner of her glasses, but he was just smirking at his little sister, so he wasn't any help. Refocusing back on Thea (because, now that she knew the stranger was actually Oliver's only living family... besides Connor, she knew the woman's name: Thea Dearden Queen Harper – a person so intimidating, she didn't have just one last name; she had three. Thea was like the opposite of Madonna. Or Prince. Or Alf. But just as notorious. And, looking at her now, Felicity was almost convinced she ate kitties, too.), she shuffled her feet. “Um... you're really pretty?”  
  
 _Yes_ , because stating the obvious... even if it was a compliment... was the way to go there instead of, you know, an actual apology. Or even begging for mercy. Her skirt was short, and, yeah, it was a little tight, too, but she was a teacher for Pete and Pete's sakes. Felicity could still manage a curtsey. Heck, she might even be able to wiggle down onto her knees to make her pleading seem more sincere. If she just hiked up this one side, while she....  
  
She was just about to risk permanent arthritic damage to her knees when a chuckling Oliver slipped his right hand into her left, squeezing Felicity's digits once in reassurance. “Felicity Smoak, I'd like you to meet my sister, Thea.”  
  
Thea stepped forward, but she didn't offer to shake Felicity's hand... which was a good thing, because physical contact just seemed like begging for trouble at that point. Plus, her palms were as moist as the Okefenokee Swamp, so... poor Oliver. Instead of a formal introduction, the younger woman ticked her head to the side and observed Felicity closely. “You honestly didn't know who I was?”  
  
“Yeah, she does that,” Oliver answered for Felicity. She didn't mind. In fact, if she could fit him in her purse, she'd take him everywhere with her so that he could always say words – all the words – for her. “She didn't know who I was either.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I'm prettier _and_ more popular than you,” Thea taunted her brother. “Your girlfriend practically said so herself. So, she should have known me. How did she not know me?”  
  
“It's called some people have a life, Aunt Thea,” Connor taunted. “And Starling City isn't the center of the world.”  
  
As he made his way down the stairs towards the three of them, Felicity tugged her hand out of Oliver's grip and made a bee-line for her student. Connor wasn't her kid, but perhaps, through age association, he'd be capable of jumpstarting her mommy filter again. On her way over towards the teenager, Thea snarked back, “well, maybe it should be. After all, _I'm_ here.” Felicity could tell that the other woman was being facetious (or, at least, she hoped she was), but Thea's glibness was doing nothing to make her feel more relaxed and comfortable. (And here Felicity had been afraid of facing Mia. Ha! Shows her what she knew. Only, yeah, she was still nervous as Nelly about talking with her daughter.)   
  
“You and me, Mister,” Felicity sidetracked the conversation by snagging Connor's attention. Even at ground level, he still stood neck and shoulders above her, and it made Felicity want to scramble around him and jump up onto the stairs herself. “After I see Mia, we need to talk.”  
  
For a brief second, Connor looked at his father... which was interesting?... before meeting Felicity's gaze and asking, “what did I do?”  
  
“You didn't do anything. This isn't one of those kinds of talks. Instead, it's a talk to make sure that you don't do... the do.”  
  
It was official. 'Three Last Names' Thea had broken her mommy filter. Without waiting for Connor to respond, Felicity turned sharply on the toes of her flats to stride away. Only... she had no frakking idea where she was going. Luckily, Oliver was immediately right there at her side. As he directed her down a hall (not _the_ hall, because sixteen wings, remember?), Felicity could hear Thea and Connor bickering in the foyer behind them. But she could pay their familial squabbles absolutely no mind, because Mia was waiting for her at the end of their walk, and Felicity had no idea what that meant, what kind of Mia she would find.  
  
At this point, she knew that her daughter was at least sober. But 'at least' wasn't the right way to qualify Mia's sobriety, because there was nothing to compare against let alone trump such an accomplishment. Felicity just meant that she didn't know how Mia would react to _her_ , or how she would look, or what type of mood she would be in, because, quite frankly, it had been so long since Mia had been consistently clean that Felicity wasn't even sure if she knew her own daughter at that point.   
  
Before Felicity had enough time to really prepare herself, Oliver had led her into what appeared to be his home office, and he had her stand in front of a laptop. On the screen, she found Mia waiting. Though her little girl seemed impatient, she also looked... calm, grounded, and, if not strong, then at least not so fragile any more either.   
  
As soon as she saw Felicity, however, the teenager scowled. “Are you shitting me,” Mia grumbled. She was already standing up, already getting ready to walk away. Addressing Oliver, Mia challenged, “you told me that, for all my hard work, you had a treat for me. Well, _she_ is not a treat.” Mia paused long enough so that Felicity could hear two sets of footsteps approaching from behind: Thea and Connor. She would have been uncomfortable with them overhearing her daughter's animosity towards her if she wasn't so hurt, if she wasn't so disappointed. “I'd rather slap another bowl of water than talk to her.” Just before the screen went dark on Mia's end, her daughter's laptop slamming closed, Felicity heard her complain, “this is bullshit.”  
  
Emily Bronte her only child was not, but Felicity was in the library, and Mia could wield her words with the precision of a deadly candlestick nonetheless. 

 


	16. FF#44: Chipped Blocks - Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Long time, no posting, everyone! As alluded to in my responses to the previous chapter's comments, it hasn't been a missing muse causing me not to post. Rather, if you follow me on social media, you'll be aware of the fact that I got a precocious, adorable, unbelievably ornery puppy this summer, and she has been demanding all of my time and attention. I love her to pieces, but I also miss writing. She is showing signs of calming down (thankfully!, finally!), so I'm tentatively hopeful that perhaps the rest of my life can soon return to normal...ish. In the meantime, I finished writing this story a long time ago, and I should have finished posting it a long time ago, too. But I didn't. And that's on me, not Lilibett Regina (my corgi puppy). So, here's an update. For anyone still interested in this story, cross your fingers that I continue to be productive at work during my lunch breaks. Stay warm, everyone!
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Chipped Blocks**

**An Olicity Flash Fic Story**

**Flash Fic Prompt #44: Touch Me**

**Chapter Sixteen**

“I'm bored.”  
  
Without visibly reacting, Oliver ignored Mia's complaint. Instead of addressing it, he adjusted his aim, drew back his bowstring, and let the nocked arrow fly. He hit the target, dead-center. As was his routine... and as Mia was _supposed_ to be doing herself, Oliver took a breath and then started the process all over again. After all, the idea of target practice was repetition. While he worked, he could feel the teenager beside him waiting impatiently – glaring, sighing, even going so far as to tap her toes against the concrete floor. If she thought her signs of impatience would deter him, however, then she was sadly mistaken. Besides, it was not like Mia complaining was anything new.  
  
At first, she had started out with whining about the difficulty of the tasks he set before her. Oliver expected her to run too far, and yoga was too hard, and the bow, _her_ bow, was rubbing her hands raw. _Blisters were child abuse, right?_ It didn't take long, though, for her grievances to shift. Instead of her training being too challenging, it then just became stupid. Pointless. Mia couldn't understand why Oliver was making her do such strange and grueling things. How exactly was slapping water going to get her clean... well, besides the obvious benefits it had for the palms of her hands. Now, apparently, Mia was moving onto boredom... which wasn't surprising given the combination of her age and aptitude.  
  
Frankly, she was a prodigy, and, seeing her almost immediate success... and then denial of said success... stung Oliver's pride. What took him months – years! – to learn, Mia could master in a matter of weeks. As soon as she was through the withdrawal stage of her recovery, Oliver had immediately started training her. She weakened quickly, and she had absolutely no self-motivation, but she was a gifted fighter and archer. On one hand, it pleased Oliver to see her succeeding. He had believed that such physical tasks would prove grounding for Mia, that the outlet for her anger would help her focus her wrath away from herself. However, at the same time, it frustrated him; she frustrated him, because he saw so much natural talent, so much potential in her, and Mia denied both her skill and her interest – both of which were there.  
  
“Come on, can't we at least listen to some music while we make like neanderthals?”  
  
Smirking, Oliver mouthed back, “I think neanderthals used clubs, not bows and arrows.”  
  
“Fine, Indian Outlaw, Half Cherokee and Choctaw _.”_ Oliver didn't need to look away from his target to know Mia was rolling her eyes at him. If nothing else, she was dramatic. What he did have to do, though, was bite the side of his mouth to keep from grinning. When she wasn't being cruel, Mia Smoak had a wicked sense of humor. She actually reminded him a little bit of his sister, and Oliver knew it would be dangerous when Mia and Thea started spending time together, because their sarcasm and mocking would just feed off each other. “If you don't want to rock out with your... crossbow, then I guess we'll have to talk.”  
  
“What do you want to talk about?” Normally, he wasn't one for conversation, especially not when he was training, but Oliver recognized Mia's proclaimed boredom for what it really was: loneliness. While he wasn't in the mood for twenty questions, he wouldn't shut the teenager out either. She needed someone to be there for her, to be her friend and mentor, and Oliver had volunteered for that position when he asked Felicity to trust him with her daughter's recovery. If that meant entertaining Mia's curiosity, then so be it.  
  
Much to Oliver's dismay, Mia tossed – yes, _tossed –_ her bow aside before she started twirling and dancing around the basement's shooting range. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her movements closely. The slight distraction was necessary so as to not accidentally shoot the girl but not a detriment to his shot. “So... how many people have you killed?”  
  
His attention wavered, but Oliver held strong. “How is that relevant to your training, Mia?”  
  
“I just want to know how much leeway I have for errant arrows.”  
  
“None. Because you won't be aiming them at people.”  
  
She neither disagreed nor agreed with him... which was troubling. Instead, Mia just ignored the reprimand and persisted with her line of inquiry. “But, no, seriously, how many?”  
  
“Honestly, Mia, I prefer to think in terms of how many I saved instead. But, to answer your question,” and he would. From the moment Oliver woke Mia up with the tools of his nighttime trade still out in the open and accepted what that would mean for the both of them moving forward, he had promised himself that he would always be upfront and open with her... no matter what. “Too many.”  
  
“So, what changed?”  
  
Pausing, Oliver released his bowstring but kept his nocked arrow loosely in place. Relaxing his arms down to his sides, Oliver twisted around until he could find the sixteen year old standing behind him. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Listen, I'm not up on all my Starling City vigilante history, but I know that, when he... you... first started, you were dropping bodies like acid.” That was a worrisome simile, but Oliver didn't interrupt her or draw attention to the metaphor. “Then, all of a sudden, you stopped. What gave?”  
  
“I disappointed someone close to me, and then he died before I could make it right.” Looking away from an empathetic yet inquisitive Mia, Oliver found himself admitting softly, “so many people died. Too many. I couldn't... stay me, stay Oliver, and add to that number anymore.”  
  
“Huh. I kind of thought maybe it was for a girl.”  
  
Oliver smirked and then turned back to his target. As he released yet another arrow, he said, “I see my _other_ reputation precedes me.”  
  
“Oh god, no!” And Oliver would swear that he could hear the revulsion in his young charge's voice. “I don't... just, please, _please_ , spare me. I just meant... well, you've turned your lair into a one-woman rehab center after dating my monster of a mother of all women for, like, two hours. If you'd do all that for her, it just made sense that you'd pull your arrows for a girlfriend as well.”  
  
That was almost... complimentary (in Mia-speak) towards Felicity, so Oliver decided to push his luck. “No, it wasn't like that, and there hasn't been anyone... like that... in a long time. Your mom is special.”  
  
“Yeah. Special ed.”  
  
“Mia,” he chastised.  
  
But Oliver's reprimand went unheeded. And then she was bouncing into his sightline again, disrupting any shot he'd try to attempt, and the last thing Oliver could worry about in that moment was improving Felicity and Mia's relationship. “So, I have an idea on how we can jazz up this training sess.”  
  
Deadpan, he said, “I'm afraid to ask.”  
  
“Then don't ask; I'll tell,” Mia snarked. “You know how I'm light on my feet, right?”  
  
“You're a regular twinkle-toes.” And she was, but Mia hated the description. She scowled at him before getting her revenge.  
  
“And how, let's be real, in your _ancient_ age, you've slowed down.”  
  
“Why run when you're as accurate of a shot as I am?” More truthfully, Oliver only seemed sedate, because Mia was so quick.  
  
Mia ignored him. “And your eyesight? Well, let's just say that somebody hasn't been eating their carrots.”  
  
Quirking his brows in an impatient manner, Oliver asked, “do you have a point, or is your idea of training making fun of me?”  
  
Speaking slowly and with emphasis... as if she were revealing a grand, impressive idea, Mia suggested, “I think you should fire... at me.”  
  
Oliver had to have heard her wrong. “What?”  
  
“Well, obviously, I'm not going to let you actually _hit_ me.”  
  
“Obviously,” he mocked, scowling.  
  
“We'll consider this a practice in agility.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
“What are you,” Mia challenged him, smiling widely. “Scared?”  
  
“Practical,” he countered. “Your mother trusted me with your welfare, to keep you safe. The last thing I'm going to do is _shoot arrows at you_ , Mia!”  
  
“What Felicity doesn't know won't hurt her.”  
  
“Not going to happen.” Oliver meant for his pronouncement to be final, but, not only was Mia skilled at martial arts and archery, but she could goad him like no other.  
  
“Oh, come on, vigiladdy! I promise I won't embarrass you. Much.”  
  
The basement fell silent, and Oliver just stared at the sixteen year old. “Wha... what did you just call me?”  
  
“Vigiladdy.”  
  
“I just... why?”  
  
“Well, because you're the vigilante, and, let's be real, in six months' time, you're going to be my new daddy, too. I was debating going with vigidaddy instead, but I felt like I was stiffing vigilante out of its proper portmanteau respect. Plus, laddie works as well.”  
  
Completely horrified, Oliver questioned, “it does?”  
  
“Sure. Because you're a lad.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Fine... you recognize my genius and are prepared to answer to your new term of endearment, or fine... you recognize my genius and want to play tag. With arrows?”  
  
Instead of answering straight-out, Oliver decided to use this to his advantage. “If I agree to play your game, what do I get out of it?”  
  
“Please, despite what I said when we first met, I won't actually sleep with the bitch's sloppy seconds.”  
  
“Mia!”  
  
“Sheesh. Untwist the briefs, Chief.”  
  
“If I do this, you're going to do something for me.” Before she could ask him for further clarification, Oliver amended, “no, make that three things.”  
  
“Name them.”  
  
“Well, first of all, you will _never_ breathe a word of this to your mother. Ever.”  
  
“Duh. Why would I want to talk to that...?”  
  
Before Mia could finish yet another insult directed towards Felicity, Oliver cut her off. “Two, enough with the disparaging remarks and names against your mom. You will show her the respect and kindness she deserves, and you will refer to her as your mother. Mom, preferably.”  
  
“You're acting extremely whipped right now, but whatever. Fine. You win. What's your third demand?”  
  
“You're going to start spending some quality time with your mom.”  
  
“Define some, define quality, and define time.”  
  
“You're leaving this basement, Mia.”  
  
For a girl with a penchant for running away from home, Mia was now practically a shut-in. Oliver wasn't sure if she was afraid to test her sobriety out in the real world, or if she wasn't ready to reintegrate back into society. Either way, staying locked away wasn't a realistic, long-term solution to Mia's problems. If her recovery was going to stick, it had to happen outside of such a controlled and protected environment. It had been more than a month since Oliver had carried her down the stairs and into his base of operations. Now, it was time to get Mia to voluntarily walk back up them on her own and start putting the pieces of her real life back together.  
  
“I leave,” she yelled, but there was no real heat behind her words, and her tone quickly turned to grumbling instead. “I go to my meetings, to my counseling sessions. I help Raisa carry in the groceries, and Roy and I go joyriding in the ridiculous number of cars you own.”  
  
He knew about the meetings, about the counseling sessions, about the chores Raisa had assigned to her, but the joyriding? “Excuse me?”  
  
“Please,” Mia scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You know how fast those cars go. How could we not take them out racing?”  
  
Sometimes, it felt like every other word out of Oliver's mouth was his young charge's name said in reprimand. “Mia!”  
  
“Alright, fine. I lied. You don't know how fast they go.”  
  
Shaking his head in aggravation... and to hide his amusement, Oliver simply offered up one word in response. “Run.”  
  
Mia took off like a light – no delay, no hesitation. And for a good five minutes, she deftly dodged his shots. Eventually, she broke Oliver's concentration with a taunt, singing out, “na-na-na-na-na, you can't touch me.”  
  
Oliver chuckled. “Really? _That's_ what you want to go with?”  
  
The teenager paused, smirked, and then started to roll her hips, running her hands down and over her body. “Do you wanna touch, do you wanna touch, do you wanna touch me... with your arrow?”  
  
Without pause, Oliver shot off an arrow... which Mia dodged gracefully and easily. “That was just disturbing.”  
  
She giggled. Just as Oliver nocked yet another arrow, Mia fired her own shot. “You should tell her... my mom. About you – vigiladdy, you.”  
  
His shot went wild, went wide, and Oliver would have gaped at his young charge, because she actually managed to _catch_ the arrow, but he couldn't think of anything but the advice she had just dropped on top of him. When he had explained his reasons behind wanting to help Mia to Digg, Oliver had suggested that he was perhaps ready to reveal his greatest secret to those closest to him. But telling Mia was one thing. If she turned him away, if she shunned him, Oliver didn't stand to lose anything. While there had always been the chance that she'd refuse to keep his secret and, in telling the world, also tell his son, sister, and his... Felicity, in doing so, she would have taken the risk of emotional honesty out of his hands. Now that she knew, however, and now that she had accepted his secret identity without even batting a lash, it was a whole different matter for Oliver to share that same truth with the people he loved the most.  
  
“I... don't know.”  
  
Mia skipped towards him, eventually handing Oliver back his arrow. As she placed it in his right hand, she spoke to him with more gravity, more confidence, and more sincerity than he had ever heard from her before. “I do.”  
  
He knew that he shouldn't push his luck, but Oliver needed to know, “why do you care, Mia? You hate your mother.” Or so she claimed. “Why do you care if I'm honest with her, if our relationship has a chance to last?”  
  
“Because I hate lies more, and even my... mother... deserves the truth. And you deserve to tell your truth, too.”  
  
As Mia walked away from him, for the first time since Oliver had met her, he could see more than just a resemblance between mother and daughter when it came to their looks and their intelligence, their willfulness; for the first time, he saw in Mia Felicity's heart as well.


End file.
